


Rachel Berry and the Olympians: Book One

by metacynical (gryphoenix)



Series: Rachel Berry and the Olympians [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, F/F, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 66,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryphoenix/pseuds/metacynical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which The Stage Is Set

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Faberry fic ever, so please be gentle. :) And heaps of thank you's to the most wonderful beta in the world, [](http://madndizzee.livejournal.com/profile)[ **madndizzee**](http://madndizzee.livejournal.com/), who is totally awesome. :D

  
Rachel Berry was _not_ a juvenile delinquent.

The counselors at all five of her past schools had said as much. Unfortunately for Rachel, all of the principals from her past five schools had also disagreed. Most of them violently.

And okay, so _maybe_ she was the guiltiest-looking party when those falling spotlights almost turned half her fourth-grade class into underage pancakes. Maybe she _did_ build that papier-mâché Kristin Chenoweth that later somehow blew her third-grade school to bits. That still didn't mean she had anything to do with any of it.

How could she?

Rachel was a scrawny, thirteen-year-old dyslexic with a bad case of ADHD and the stardom bug. She spent her days trying to rig glee club solo selections, not explosives, and contrary to popular belief, she could read sheet music far better than satanic glyphs. Or anything else, for that matter.

The truth was that she was more suited to filling the role of "victim" than the "murderous sociopath" one she kept being cast in - but that didn't stop things from exploding whenever she was around, let alone boost her chances of staying out of juvie. In fact the only chances it probably raised were those of being chased out of town by a mob armed with pitchforks and torches.

As it happened, her new school was in a region historically known for using pitchforks. Which was why, looking back on her time in William McKinley High, she was surprised to have lasted as long as she did.

*

On the last day of her four months in Lima, Ohio, Rachel marched into glee club with all the sound and fury of a rising legend long denied her due. There was a new solo up for grabs - _Defying Gravity_ , according to her reliable if incredibly disturbing source, the panty-sniffing male lead Jacob Ben Israel - and she'd be damned if the dignity she'd traded didn't nab her more than her regular backing vocals. There was only so much a girl could take after giving up some underpants.

Especially when she was forced to battle the likes of _Suzy Pepper_ for solos. It was bad enough that Suzy won all the time, but losing _Mama Who Bore Me_ while your competitor was in the middle of an esophagus transplant? She'd almost appreciated the creeping arm Jacob Ben Israel tried to put around her shoulders - at least before she remembered her pending request for a restraining order.

The fact was that she was the most - no, the _only_ \- talented member of glee club, and she was also the _only_ one who had yet to sing more than the occasional backing "Ooh." So it was an understandably short fuse she walked in with, that last day in McKinley's choir room. Pepper greeted her with the usual mad eyes and taunting smirk; Jacob tried to use his de facto male lead status to sexually harass her; and, just as Rachel took her seat and dispensed her twenty-third ACLU threat of the day, the bane of her gold-starred existence walked straight into the room.

"Good day, Mr. Schuester," she said, as politely as she could. Considering the curly-haired choir director always passed her up in favor of crazed girls with burnt digestive tracts, her tone fell several light years short of "civil and cordial." It was, however, within a ten-mile radius of "mildly offensive," and well within the bounds of "murderously inclined."

Well. She'd tried.

"Hello, Rachel," William Schuester bleated. Literally, _bleated_ , like he always did when he was out to (nervously) ruin her future. She wondered if the _"Baa-aachel"_ was intentional; the implied career sabotage certainly was. "And hi, guys."

"Mr. Schue, I understand we're going to have auditions for a solo today?" Rachel interjected. There really was no need to greet her fellow glee club members; some of them - she glared pointedly at the budding sex offender trying to place a hand on her leg - hardly counted as members at all. Unfortunately, Mr. Schuester seemed to be using a different number system altogether.

 _"Baa-ha-ha!"_ The anxiety in Mr. Schue's voice only made him sound like a man harboring several years' worth of dreams about being _Wicked_ 's Doctor Dillamond. It was an entirely appropriate act, considering glee club assignments were always tied to some kind of gimmick. For a while that gimmick was "heartwarming moral lessons" care of Mr. Schue, who seemed perfectly happy spouting advice about things like "seeing the best in people."

Then Rachel had asked how exactly one did that with an eye full of corn syrup, to her teammates' loud agreement, and their meetings had been free of Mr. Schuester's Great Teaching Moments for a while. Apparently he'd gotten out of his funk by discovering bad method acting.

"About that," Mr. Schue continued, the goat act thankfully dropped. "I understand we've been doing too many standards, show tunes - "

"No!" Rachel squeaked.

" - so I thought we could try a different approach." The choir director wrung his hands. In his button-down shirt and jeans he could have passed for a standard young, impassioned teacher, but Rachel knew what he was up to. It took more than a bout of bleating to cover up what was clearly meant to be an elegy for her moment of _Wicked_ glory.

"You guys have been asking for more modern stuff, so our next selection is going to be..."

Mr. Schue held his breath, raising his palms and eagerly waiting for something other than tumbleweed to creep into the room. He seemed to be crossing his fingers for excitement. Rachel didn't know about her fellow glee clubbers, but she'd never wanted to punch someone so much in her otherwise-peaceful life.

"...50 Cent!" He finished, looking around and flashing a wide grin that only made him more of a tempting target.

Somewhere in the back, a kid from the AV Club yawned. A can of Coke sailed straight in the general direction of the choir director's face, exploding right on top of the piano. The band kids started complaining about buying Kevlar vests in case of drive-bys. Jacob Ben Israel tried to flex his nonexistent "rapper muscles," and a quick glance to her left revealed a homicidal Suzy Pepper.

For once the room (sans Jacob) crackled with some kind of (mutinous) solidarity. Mr. Schuester had demonstrated rap to them, once, and somewhere between his awkward "breakdancing" and the horrific thought of being shot for condoning such a crime against humanity, they'd all developed a violent aversion to the genre. Being told they had to _perform_ it, well, their teacher probably had good reason to fear for his life: Everyone (again, sans Jacob) looked bent on entering Sectionals with prison records and a mangled corpse for a director. Which, as far as rapping glee clubs went, was admittedly a good start.

Rachel did _not_ want a good start. She wanted a solo, and she did not appreciate the apparent implication that she had to offend her musical sensibilities to get one. Summoning her last ounce of pacifist sentiment, she straightened up in her seat and threw up her hand.

"Mr. Schue, I hardly think this kind of music will get pass the censors - "

"Ah," the choir director cut in, his tone dripping with all the smoothness borne from hours of practice in front of a mirror, "but this year the Ohio Show Choir Board's expressed an interest in welcoming more music from the African-American community." He gave a self-satisfied nod, as if he were filming a PSA about ruining student dreams. "As I understand, one of your dads is African-American, so I would expect _you_ , of all people, to support New Directions' new direction."

For once, Rachel could only gape back. In the pages of her future autobiography it was a moment that could have been set down as groundbreaking: She was being verbally outmaneuvered by a bleating show choir director - and with a move he'd probably stolen from Sue Sylvester to boot.

In any other circumstances, she would have welcomed the sudden growth of backbone in their director - it was a handy trait to have, if they ever needed to grovel for enough money from the school to stage a halfway decent number - but as it was, she was far too busy being horrified about where the spine had come from.

Coach Sylvester was the self-proclaimed celebrity dictator-in-charge of McKinley's cheerleading squad. Or at least, that was her job description. The truth was that she spent most of her tracksuited time stalking the halls, sending McKinley's students into intensive psychotherapy and ridiculing Mr. Schuester's admittedly ill-advised hairdo. She took potshots at the rest of America, too - via her segment on the local news program (true to her name, after the first episode, she really was getting sued) - but her favorite punching bag was always Will Schuester.

In a way, it should have been expected. Research did say that humans learned best through repetition, and Coach Sylvester certainly harassed their choir director often enough for him to pick up _something_. Usually that was his dignity, what with the coach basically mopping the floor with it, but the tricks were bound to come sometime. It just wasn't expected that he would actually _use them._

To the high court of ethics residing soundly in Rachel Berry's conscience, it was nothing short of appalling.

"That is nothing short of _appalling,_ Mr. Schuester," she declared, marching up to the teacher to wag an accusatory finger in his face. Behind her, the other kids groaned. "How long have you been decrying Coach Sylvester's use of manipulation to achieve her goals?"

Somewhere in the back of her skull a tiny Rachel struggled to pull out sticky notes about lying low in school, and avoiding trips to the principal's office, and staying for at least a year in Lima. Somewhere in there a tiny Rachel was prodding the rest of her brain to stop. But the larger part of her head, all 99.9% of it, thrummed with the sound of rushing blood, and the moment Mr. Schuester opened his mouth to defend the erosion of his morals, tiny Rachel dropped her Post-Its and reached for her Bedazzled protest placards.

"Now, Rachel," Mr. Schue started, backing up pass the piano and raising trembling hands as the rest of the club sighed and started filing out of the room. It had become standard practice after Rachel's third day of diva fits, complete with guidelines from the diva herself. After all, if her teammates were going to storm out it was imperative to ensure a modicum of order. The last thing she needed was Mr. Schuester dying by a stampede in the middle of her tirade.

"Oh, come on, guys," the choir director called as the last kid scampered down the hall with a wave.

"Listen, Rachel," he sighed, turning to look at her with the kind of resignation frequently seen on death row. "Let's not go berserk over this, okay?" His eyes grew wide when the words sunk in. "I mean, I know your ADHD makes - "

"How long," seethed the brunette, ignoring her teammates and narrowing her eyes as she pressed on, each stomp punctuated with a jab at her teacher's nose, "have you inundated this glee club with speeches about your views on _integrity_ and _teaching?_ "

"Rachel," Mr. Schue interrupted, stepping out of the line of nose jabs and bracing one hand against the doorway to try and hold his ground. "I know you do this about song choices, and choreography, and costumes, but if you don't stop _attacking-_ "

"But there you are, _buying_ into Coach Sylvester's despicable methods with nary an inch of the malevolent polyester tracksuits required to pull them off!" Rachel huffed, crossing her arms and frowning at her teacher. "For _shame,_ Mr. Schuester, _for shame._ "

Mr. Schue stared at her, looking for all the world as though he'd just been flattened by a steamroller. Rachel smiled. Obviously the choir director now owed her a solo for saving him from Sue Sylvester's own brand of hellfire. The marquees were just starting to light up in her head when a cutting voice flew in from the doorway and shattered them all.

"You should listen to her, Mr. Schue, I'm sure she's got a lot to say about shame."

Rachel stiffened. She'd taken great pains to avoid the even greater pain of that voice all day, and she'd ducked into the choir room for glee that afternoon confident that she'd finally succeeded. As she turned to address the interruption, peering around the still-stricken Mr. Schuester, it was clear that success was short-lived: Leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and eyebrow raised, was Quinn Fabray.

She was clad, as always, in the red and white armor that was her Junior Cheerios uniform, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail so severe Rachel wouldn't have been surprised if it killed someone. There was a pompom bunched in Quinn's hand, matching the colors of her uniform exactly. Whatever it was that sent her from cheerleading practice to resume the slow and steady destruction of Rachel's life she'd so far reserved for class hours, Rachel knew it could only have been evil.

"I really don't know why you bother with speeches, Stubbles, that sweater says it all." Quinn flashed her a smile. It was so sickeningly sweet she looked like she was trying to kill Rachel with diabetes.

"Quinn," Mr. Schue warned, snapping out of his trance and pushing Rachel behind him for good measure. "I'm sorry, but this is a glee club matter, and I _cannot_ let you interrupt it by ridiculing my students' sweaters."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Schue," Quinn answered, undeterred."Would you rather I douse her skirt with acid instead?"

The choir director frowned at her. Quinn was never outright rude to Mr. Schue, but she didn't exactly respect him either. The other Cheerios at least talked to him like any other teacher. Quinn, on the other hand - it was like Coach Sylvester gave her a one-on-one course on school-brand malice. Rachel could almost see the syllabus: Lesson One - Looking Down on Schuester.

"Why are you here, Quinn?" Mr. Schue pressed his fingers to his temple. Rachel felt a pang of guilt when she saw his shoulders slump. He looked so tired. "I'm sure Sue doesn't like her cheerleaders being late for practice."

"Oh, she isn't on the field." Quinn smirked, pushing herself off the doorframe and smoothing out her skirt. "Actually, Mr. Schue, if you're done being lectured by Stubbles - "

"Quinn!"

" _\- Berry_ ," she amended, rolling her eyes, "Coach says she wants to see you in her office."

Rachel's eyes widened, all traces of pity for Mr. Schuester gone. So now he was holding secret meetings with Coach Sylvester? She pushed her way out from behind him, taking care to glare at both the fallen choir director and the cheerleader waiting to lead him to damnation. Quinn glanced at her, amused.

"Not done talking yet, Manhands?" This time, Quinn plowed right through Mr. Schuester's protests. "You better learn to shut your mouth soon."

She drew herself up, her eyes hardening into a stare so cold Rachel had to step back. In the afternoon light it almost seemed like there was a storm brewing under all that hazel. "I'm sure you're aware that I'm not the only one here who wants to shut it for you. I'm also sure you're very aware that those football-throwing Neanderthals are doing their best to make sure you spend the rest of your life on mute. Horrific as the idea is, Stubbles, _if_ I were you..." Quinn wrinkled her nose in disgust, "I wouldn't give them any more reason to try."

"You better get going, Mr. Schue," she added brightly, strutting out into the hall. "You know the way. She doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Rachel blocked the door before Mr. Schue could follow Quinn out into the hall, her eyes burning with accusation.

"Did I hear that right, Mr. Schuester? Clandestine meetings with Coach Sylvester - and held frequently enough for you to, and I quote, 'know the way'?" Her fingers twitched with the last ounce of her agitation as she made air quotes. "Mr. Schuester, there is no disrespect meant in this accusation, but I do believe you've turned into a hypocrite."

There was no stab of guilt to feel when Mr. Schue sighed, the wrinkles on his brow looking deeper than ever. She couldn't bring herself to feel sorry for him, not anymore. Her anger was trickling away, or perhaps it had been squashed by the appearance of Quinn Fabray, she didn't know. What she did know was that she could take no more excuses from Mr. Schuester. He wasn't the only one who was tired.

"Look, Rachel." Mr. Schue rubbed the back of his neck. "Whatever you think Sue and I are up to, it has nothing to do with your solos."

"Or lack thereof," Rachel muttered, looking away. She could feel Mr. Schue's eyes on her as she dropped onto the closest chair, squeezing her eyes shut to keep the sadness in. She wondered idly where to keep it, but she heard the answer trickling drop by drop into her voice. "I just don't understand why you keep giving me chorus parts when the closest thing I have to competition has a burnt larynx and someone else's esophagus."

She could feel the words sinking into her chest as she said them, closing off her throat, blurring up her vision. She dug her palm into her eyes, trying to push back the tears. Her daddies had raised her not to be the kind of girl who cried. She'd raised herself to be the kind of girl who tried not to disappoint them. Her chest tightened at the thought that she'd failed - again - at both.

The sound of chair legs scraping across the floor cut into her thoughts. Suddenly there was Mr. Schue in front of her, smiling. It was a smile she often thought was reserved for terminally-ill people. Sad, sorry - but also helpless.

"I know you want to be a star," Mr. Schue started, his patented Teaching Moment voice kicking into gear as he laid a hand on her shoulder, "and I know that's been hard to do in glee club so far. I mean, you must be feeling all this pressure to prove yourself, being the new kid, being the..." He trailed off, exploding effigies and multicolored slushies hanging in the air between them. "But you have to understand, Rachel - sometimes, sometimes people have to wait to get their shot at stardom."

"Sometimes they have to try, too." She wiped the tracks off her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. Frustration seeped into her voice. "Why do you always have to stop me when I do?"

"I... " Mr. Schuester frowned, as if trying to pick out the right words. "I know all too well that sometimes people live easier when they don't try too early." He reached over and poked her nose. "Which is what you've been doing." Earnestness crept back into his eyes as he regarded her, anxious. "It's not your time yet, Rachel."

Rachel looked at him, _really_ looked, searching his eyes for more disappointment, maybe even a lie in the vein of one Sue Sylvester - but somehow, studying his face as he waited for her answer, she knew he was telling the truth.

"It's never too early to replace Idina," Rachel finally murmured.

"Maybe a few more years." Mr. Schue gave her a pat on the back as he stood up, looking so relieved he might have started rapping about it.

"William Schuester."

The school's PA system crackled to life above them, saving Rachel from another terrifying rendition of Vanilla Ice. Mr. Schue looked up at the speaker hanging over the doorway, puzzled.

"Calling William Schuester. Coach Sylvester wants you to haul your underachieving ass - wait, sorry, I was just reading the note - ah -" There was a scuffling noise. Rachel winced as feedback blasted through the halls.

A loud sigh came through the speakers. "Just go to Ms. Sylvester's office, Mr. Schue."


	2. In Which The Stage Is Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (Please copy-paste to rot13.com to read) Guerngrarq naq nggrzcgrq ivbyrapr bs gur nez-gjvfgvat xvaq, naq n svrel qrngu sbe n aba-znwbe punenpgre.

The auditorium smelled like mothballs.

Rachel left the door open to keep from suffocating. (Let it not be said that Rachel Berry did not save herself from asphyxiation.) Light filtered in from the hallway; in the faint afternoon sun, she could see the cobwebs that stuck to her bag as she set it down on a seat. Between a lamentable glee club and the principal moving assemblies to the gym to "cut costs," the auditorium was pretty much abandoned.

She ran her fingers over dusty armrests as she made her way to the stage. It felt like walking through a ghost town.

Mr. Schuester's reproachful words still found her there, of course. Rachel tried to shake them out of her head. It wasn't like she was going to get a Tony for sneaking into the auditorium. A suspension, maybe, but not a Tony - so Mr. Schue's voice had no business barging into her head and telling her not to "try too early." Alright, he wanted her to wait a few years before marching triumphant into Broadway. That didn't mean she had to stop singing altogether.

She clicked through her iPod, thumbing through songs as she flicked through the light switches. Blazing spotlights lit a wide circle right at center stage, and she stepped cautiously into it. No matter how much she insisted on being their focus, spotlights always made her uneasy. Even then, without a single person to jeer at her from the dim-lit rows, it still felt undeserved.

The opening strains of a song broke into her thoughts. Rachel smiled into the glare of the light - inanimate object that it was, her iPod knew her so well. She turned to face her imaginary audience, breathing deep.

 _There is a castle on a cloud._ She jumped into the song with perfect timing. Of course she did; she'd sung it a thousand times. Eyes fluttered shut as she reveled in the familiar roll of the lyrics on her tongue. _I like to go there in my sleep -_

BAM.

The auditorium door crashed shut. Her iPod clattered to the floor. The empty seats plunged into darkness.

Rachel craned her neck, trying to see into the shadows. Whoever had closed the door was probably still in there...somewhere. She felt her pocket for her rape whistle.

"Hello?" she called, her voice shaky in the still air. "Is anybody there?"

Nothing. Just _Les Misérables_ blaring, tinny, from the earbuds spread discarded on the floor. Cosette's thin voice crept eerily through the quiet. Rachel moved to turn her iPod off.

 _Thud._ She jumped, wild eyes searching through the darkness. The sound had come from the back. It might have even been her bag falling. Never mind that she'd tucked it snugly into the corner of the seat.

Maybe it was the wind. Rachel tried not to think about the impossibility of wind in a closed auditorium. Were the walls really that close? Even the shadows seemed to be pressing in. The whistle felt cold in her clutching fingers.

"W-Whoever you are, I'll have you know this is pointless!" She stepped forward, to the edge of the stage, trying to squint through the glare of the spotlight. "I'm well prepared to handle paparazzi, you know!"

 _Thump. Thump._ Closer, this time - just halfway across the room. Loud, heavy footsteps, trudging down either aisle. Two. There were two. Her mind ran through frantic questions. Who were they? What did they want? _Could they kill her?_ Rachel clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp.

Through trembling fingers, she whispered faintly, "You - you can start taking pictures now."

"Oh, we're not here to take your picture."

Rachel whirled around, lifting her whistle to her lips. A figure stepped into the light, a huge boy in a familiar red-and-white letterman jacket. He grinned down at her. Rachel knew that wicked glint in his eye too.

"Karofsky." Behind her, someone leapt onto the stage. The floor shook as whoever it was crashed onto it, and she heard the steady beat of footsteps as they approached.

"Azimio," she guessed. Who else could it be? Azimio's large hands closed on her wrists, and Karofsky stepped forward to pry the whistle from her fingers.

Rachel kicked viciously at his shins. He shrugged off the blows with a growl. "You're lucky she needs you alive," Karofsky muttered angrily as he advanced. "But not lucky enough for her to need your limbs." He winked at Azimio. "What d'you say, dude, up for some twig-snapping?"

Alarms exploded in Rachel's head. She fought to free her wrists, twisting her arms, stamping her foot down on Azimio's sneakers. Her captors were unfazed. What did her daddies tell her about situations like this? _Here's what you do when there's no one to help you, Bubbala,_ they'd said, sitting her down on the couch and starting up the laptop for their slideshow. Rachel struggled to remember all the helpful diagrams. _Come on. You studied this. Come on._ It was no use. The panic chased all the material out of her head.

"You need to rethink this decision," Rachel finally blurted out, squirming in protest as Azimio wrenched her arms behind her back. "I-it's very unwise to forego your extracurriculars merely to torment me. Besides, violence against women and children is a terrible crime, and whoever this 'she' you mentioned is, I'm sure she wouldn't - "

"Shut your mouth, hobbit." Azimio shoved her head forward. Rachel stumbled straight into Karofsky's jacket, earning herself a mouthful of letterman. Her arms stretched out behind her, wrists locked in the football player's hold. Her shoulders screamed at the strain. "Hell, if they didn't need that damned face gash of yours, I'd break it too."

"Can it," Karofsky ordered, punching his buddy on the shoulder. He grabbed hold of Rachel's hair and pulled her head up, and her vision jerked from jacket stitchings to his leering face. She blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears back. Her scalp burned.

"Why are you doing this?" The question slipped in a pained whisper out her lips, and Karofsky grinned. He gave a nod, and Azimio's free hand clamped down over her mouth. Rachel felt Karofsky's meaty hand wrap around her elbow. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable _crack._

"Heard you and Schuester yelling 'bout a set list in the choir room the other day." His breath flew hot into Rachel's face. She grimaced; it smelled like rotting meat. More tears pricked at her eyes, threatening to come cascading down her cheeks. She tried to think of her daddies, that one time they danced around in their living room. Mr. Schuester, sitting oblivious in Coach Sylvester's office. Even Quinn, probably staring down at her minions from the top of a human pyramid right then. Slushies, glee club, solos - anything to distract her from the sudden undeniable urge to cry. She knew she'd lost, completely helpless and utterly alone, but she wasn't about to let it show.

"Seems to me your fruit of an adviser thinks you ought to be a bit more...flexible." She could almost hear the sneer in his voice. His hold tightened around her elbow, pressing down harder. Rachel's eyes shot open as fire tore through her arm. "I think I can help you with that."

Karofsky laughed as he pushed her elbow further, laughed as Rachel lurched forward, her scream dying behind Azimio's hand. Whatever images she'd conjured up flew out the window. There was only agony, ripping in spasms from the joint, rattling her choked tears free. And then - just like that - it was gone.

Karofsky had let go. She looked around with wild eyes, relieved--and confused. The hockey player stood still, looking warily at the auditorium door. Through the darkness, she heard why: Someone was pounding on it.

"Go," Karofsky muttered. The vise around Rachel's wrists vanished. A moment later, she heard Azimio's footsteps trudging up the aisles. Karofsky looked down at her, contemptuous. "Guess you're luckier than I thought."

"Rachel!" A muffled voice called through the door. "Rachel, are you there?"

Before she could even think about the giant jock growling beside her, Rachel scampered to the edge of the stage. "In here! I'm in here!"

Karofsky grabbed her by the shoulder and threw her back, away from the door. Rachel slammed into the wall, the impact sending her arm screaming. She clutched at her elbow and watched, horrified, as the hockey player turned to look at her, inhuman snarls rising from his throat.

He was _growing_ , his head rising further above her than it had already been, his arching back and spreading shoulders ripping his jacket in half, easy. His hands were trembling, and then there was fur sprouting all over them, claws breaking through the skin. The worst change was his face. His face was blurring, almost as if it were melting clean off his skull. His nose started lengthening, fur erupting all over his cheeks, and then suddenly he wasn't Karofsky anymore. He was a gnarling, howling _bear_.

Rachel drew back, screaming. The pounding grew louder. She watched, terrified, as Karofsky leapt on human legs down into the rows, howling. A similar cry answered back from right beside the auditorium entrance, and she knew a half-bear Azimio was crouching there in ambush. Whoever her would-be savior was, their hammering booming even louder, she silently apologized for leading them to their death.

And then the doors _exploded._

A mighty wave of sound swept through the hall, slamming Rachel back against the wall. Azimio went crashing into the seats, and Rachel threw her good arm over her head as a rain of splinters cut through the air. The doorway was engulfed in a massive, roaring fireball, flames licking up the posts hungrily. The smell of ozone crept in from the corridor, and through the blazing arch strode a single haughty figure.

"Get your hands off Manhands."

Rachel could recognize that voice anywhere. _"Quinn!"_

"No, moron, it's Barbra Streisand." Even across the length of the auditorium Rachel could see her eyeroll. The cheerleader looked up at the stage, her ponytail bobbing, and motioned for Rachel to stay where she was. Rachel watched her stalk down the aisle, heading for the seemingly-unconscious Azimio. In her hands, glinting in the light of the spreading fire, was what looked like a small, silver flashlight.

Rachel could only gape in disbelief. Quinn Fabray - cheerleader Quinn Fabray - hoped to save her with a standard-issue _flashlight._ It was about as unbelievable as the idea of a cheerleader blowing up a door. _Then again,_ Rachel thought as she tottered to her feet, _look what happened there._

"Gods, Berry," Quinn called, spotting Rachel stepping carefully off the stage. "I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut?"

"Well, you told me to stay there, too," Rachel answered, stopping beside the cheerleader and gesturing with her damaged arm at the stage. She winced as a jolt of pain cut through her elbow. "And as I recall, you've told me countless times to get myself sterilized. As you can see I haven't been inclined to do either."

"Thank you for that inane and thoroughly unnecessary answer," Quinn shot back. She bent down to examine Azimio. The jock was crumpled in a heap on the floor. The black fur on his arms were singed; the burned tip of his snout was still smoking. "Still alive," Rachel heard Quinn mutter, poking the unconscious bear-boy with her flashlight. She sounded so calm it was unnerving.

Rachel slumped into the nearest chair, closing her eyes as questions whirled inside her head and a dull throbbing started up in the back of her skull. She pressed a hand to it and breathed in slowly, trying to slow her thoughts. She heard Quinn gag--she was probably searching Azimio's person still. Rachel could almost see her expertly patting down the jock, rifling through pockets for weapons.

"You seem to have prior experience knocking out bear hybrids," Rachel began, her voice even. She paused, listening for a reaction, but Quinn was silent. "More importantly, it seems to me you had prior knowledge of this attack. You saved me, Quinn, and I thank you, but - "

 _"Di immortales!"_

Her eyes snapped open. A blur of red, white and black flew pass her, crashing into the seats to her left. Rachel leapt to her feet, her hands flying to her neck as someone grabbed her by the collar.

"Didn't think I was that easy, did you?" Karofsky dragged her out into the aisle, his claws digging into her back. He laughed as she struggled in his hold. "You should stop fighting now, Berry, before someone else dies for you."

Dread shot through Rachel like a knife. She spun around, clawing viciously at the surprised Karofsky's face and wrenching herself free of his grip. Stumbling back to her seat, batting away Karofsky's hands, she scoured the row frantically for Quinn. She found her half-draped over an armrest, unconscious; blood trickled from a cut on her cheek. What little fight was left in Rachel died at the sight. Quinn wasn't moving.

"Gods damn you, midget," Karofsky growled, grabbing hold of her arm and jerking her back. "When people tell you someone's dead you're supposed to _give up_ , not turn into a fucking hellhound." He tried to pull her back out onto the aisle but Rachel stood rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed firmly on Quinn.

Blue sparks were dancing all over her cheerleading uniform, and the air around her crackled with electricity. Karofsky narrowed his eyes, letting go of Rachel and backing away. He didn't get far enough to avoid the lightning.

It pounded into him like an artillery shell, arching up from Quinn's unmoving form and blasting him straight into the nearest wall. He staggered to his feet only to be thrown back by bolt after bolt, the whole auditorium shaking with the force of each blow. Arcs of energy flew out in all directions, setting fire to the curtains, the seats, the stage.

Rachel watched in horror as flames ate their way through the hall, the spotlights shattering from the rising heat. Glass rained down from the rafters. Smoke flooded her lungs; hell pressed in from all sides. She threw her arms over her head and stumbled back from the spreading fire. She found herself pressed up against the wall, right next to Karofsky. He was burnt black and unrecognizable; she clapped her hand to her mouth and turned away, retching.

Then she heard it--a groan. Rachel looked up, squinting through the flames. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a streak of red: Quinn had pushed herself to her feet. She looked deathly pale in the middle of the conflagration, and grew even paler when she spotted Rachel. She crouched low and scurried over, her ponytail bobbing through the growing clouds of smoke.

"Let me guess," she said, grabbing Rachel by the wrist and tugging her towards the exit, "standing around like that - you were inclined to follow my suggestion to go to hell?"

Rachel winced, following Quinn's lead and sprinting straight through fire as they made for the doors. Wisps of flame caught onto the sleeves of her sweater, licked up along her socks. "If that's true, you're certainly going with me."

Quinn looked back at her, eyebrow raised like they were having some ordinary throwdown in the hallways. "I don't need to go anywhere for eternal torture, Manhands. I've already got you."


	3. The Furious Face Of Suzy Pepper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (Please copy-paste to rot13.com to read)Zvabe punenpgre qrngu ivn pne penfu. Q:

The moment Quinn threw her into a locker, Rachel knew she'd have to press charges.

Granted it was a consequence of being flung out of a burning auditorium, but it still hurt. She peeled herself off the metal door and shook out the charred remnants of her sleeves, wincing. Her dads were bound to bite her head off. At least with slushie stains they could be appeased by the promise of an intense run in the washer.

"You're going to have to buy me a new sweater," she declared. After all, it was the cheerleader's fault for setting the auditorium on fire in the first place. And possibly murdering Azimio. And _certainly_ murdering Karofsky. The fire alarm rung shrill in her ears, and the cold water of the sprinklers hit her almost as fast as the facts did. The second time Rachel crashed into a locker, clutching her chest and heart racing with panic, she knew she was bound to face some charges of her own.

"You - fire - _o_ _h god - oh my god!_ " She cast around wildly for Quinn, torn between performing that citizen's arrest her dads taught her or running down the halls screaming like a madman. She wasn't really sure which she was supposed to do when faced with a teenage felon.

Then she actually _saw_ Quinn, sprawled on the floor just a few feet away, and all her options flew out the window. The cheerleader's lips were blue, her face ashen. Rachel dropped to her knees beside Quinn and felt for a pulse. Faint, but at least she wasn't dead.

"Rachel?"

She looked up, trying her best to look innocent. Mr. Schuester was running down the corridor. Or rather, clopping. He'd somehow lost his shoes, and in their place were _hooves._ And attached to those hooves, right where any proper teacher's pants should've been, were either really furry hindquarters or a shag carpet. Rachel's jaw dropped.

"Are you okay?" The choir director stopped right beside her, rummaging in his jacket pockets.

Rachel nodded. "Quinn, she - "

"I told her not to push this lightning thing," Mr. Schue muttered, fishing out what looked like a light brown brownie. He gathered Quinn up into his arms. She groaned in protest, and Mr. Schue tried to shove the brownie into her open mouth. "Come on, Quinn, I don't have any nectar on me, you're going to have to chew." He turned to Rachel. "What happened?"

Rachel sat back on her heels and scowled. "Karofsky and Azimio physically assaulted me while wearing bear suits."

Mr. Schuester's brow furrowed as he looked from her to Quinn and back again. She could almost see the gears turning. "And - _Suzy?_ "

"What?" She turned to look. Suzy Pepper was just rounding the corner, marching right towards them. The smile on her face looked almost predatory. Rachel turned back to Mr. Schue. He was about as pale as Quinn.

"Fury," he hissed, lifting Quinn up as he got to his feet. Rachel got up, confused. _Fury?_ Mr. Schue wheeled around and started clopping towards the other end of the hall, away from Suzy. Quinn's legs swung limply as he picked up speed.

Rachel stood frozen. She could hear Suzy getting closer and closer behind her, the sound somehow filling her with dread, but her feet wouldn't move. She saw Mr. Schue stop at the corner, saw him look at her, glance fearfully behind her.

"Come on, Rachel." His voice shook. "We have to - we have to go."

Her thoughts sparked like live wires, currents of panic and guilt and fear and _oh god her school record_. She didn't know if it was her stupid ADHD, or the thought that she'd rather not deal with an irrational fear of Suzy Pepper on top of everything else, or maybe just the trauma of seeing Mr. Schue with hooves and no pants on. She spun on her heel and pushed past Suzy, barrelling down the hall. What she did know was that she wanted to go home, and she didn't care if she had to run through half the town to get there.

*  
Rachel fell into the couch an hour later. Her dads weren't home yet, and with no worried parents hovering around her she felt almost normal again. There was a jug of cold water ready on the table, and with her iPod gone she'd busted out her Bedazzled stereo and put on the _Funny Girl_ OBC.

Barbra's voice swelled from the speakers, drowning out the fire alarm still ringing in her mind. It even came close to erasing those last images of Karofsky, and of Mr. Schue fleeing with a half-dead Quinn. What it couldn't take away, though, was the sound of Mr. Schue's voice calling to her from the end of that hallway. _We have to go._ Even in memory it sounded like an omen.

Rachel wondered what he'd meant. She shifted onto her side and hugged a pillow to herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Whatever it was, it didn't matter: The way Mr. Schue spoke, he sounded like he wouldn't be back for a very long time; and even if he did come back, Rachel figured, she'd be expelled before she could even ask.  
*  
She was in a tunnel - a very, very old one. The walls were crumbling rock; the air smelled stale. She stretched her hand out and felt her way forward. Each step against the tunnel floor echoed, hollow and faint.

A torch flared to life a few feet away. Rachel slowed, squinting. Someone was holding the flame aloft, walking closer. Blonde hair glowed almost gold in the firelight, and Rachel recoiled as the torch-bearer drew to a stop in front of her. Hazel eyes glared from less than a foot away. She knew the look in them: Determination, blazing almost brighter than the torch, with a world of hurt and sadness for kindling. She saw that same look in the mirror everyday -- and from all the "getting up in her face" she got with every hallway throwdown, she knew who else did too.

"Quinn?"

Rachel reached for the girl's shoulder, shrieking when her hand passed right through. Quinn was looking right through her, and Rachel plastered herself to the tunnel wall the moment the blonde walked forward. She didn't want to be _walked_ through.

"He was right," Quinn called over her shoulder. Her voice trembled with a savage triumph. "We've got them now."

Rachel turned. The room spun beneath her, walls melting into each other. A second later she found herself in an entirely different place -- a domed room. On the wall directly opposite was a colored-tile mosaic of twelve people in the middle of a feast. Rachel glanced at the bearded men brandishing lightning bolts and tridents, the women holding owls and doves. Her gaze settled on a man holding a lyre. He was wearing winged shoes, and he was holding the lyre out to someone else.

She stepped closer. The lyre's recipient was a man wearing a laurel wreath, the tiles around him a faded yellow. Rachel figured they must have been gold once. She traced the halo of tiles. Then she spotted the _thing_ , crumpled in a heap at the base of the wall.

He looked like a regular pizza guy, complete with stained uniform, except he was trussed up like a masochistic family's turkey. The uniform was a gaudy red-and-yellow, but _he_ was gray -- the color of smoke trapped in a glass bottle, or fog.

Silver rope wound around him, pinning his arms to his sides. It was tied in an elaborate knot, one so intricate it couldn't possibly have been tied by anyone's hand. Rachel dropped to her knees beside him. She reached out to touch the rope, and the solid smoke it seemed to be holding prisoner, but everything was dissolving.

The tiles and the faces painted on them broke into a million pieces, scattering around her like a handful of sand thrown into the wind. The ground was shaking. Cracks slithered up through the walls, meeting in a giant web all across the domed roof. Rachel struggled to her feet, flinging her arms over her head as the rest of the room crumbled to dust around her.

The roar of collapse washed over her like a wave, and then there was only a voice, whispering to her - _"I have found you. I shall have you."_ \- rising like tremors from the depths of the earth. Then it was gone, the last echoes of the trembling earth giving way to another voice - one that sang, pure and clear and haunting. Rachel felt the song flow through her, and each note felt all at once like a command, a plea, a lament. But even that faded away, and Rachel found herself left with only the faintest memory of grief, and an overwhelming darkness.  
*  
She woke to the sound of knocking. Or rather, _pounding_ \- like some kids had decided to test their new battering ram on the Berry’s door.

Rachel groaned and got to her feet; of all the days for the neighbor kids to strike, this had to be the worst one. She shuffled to the door and got up on tiptoe to check through the peephole. She threw the door open almost immediately: Standing on the front step, semi-conscious cheerleader in his arms, was Mr. Schuester.

"Thank you, Rachel," he huffed as Rachel bolted the door behind him. He still didn't have his pants on - just goat legs and hooves. Rachel eyed the furry tail wagging behind him as he set Quinn down on the sofa; either Mr. Schuester was really dedicated to making costumes, or Ms Sylvester was right in calling him a genetically-modified hair monster.

Rachel inched around him and eased herself into one of the armchairs. Better to be safe than strangled to death by living fur. "Mr. Schue, what are you doing here?”

"Coming to get you," the teacher answered, running around the room and pulling all the curtains shut. "We have to go _now._ "

"I'm sorry, go where?" Rachel asked incredulously. She shrank back into her seat. Mr. Schue looked almost crazed, barricading the _fireplace_ with one of her daddy's bookcases. Maybe all the verbal abuse from Coach Sylvester finally broke him. He'd have to be, if he was expecting her to just get up and run off with him. Rachel suppressed a shudder at the thought.

He seemed to have read her thoughts, because he took her firmly by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. There was no insanity there; only fear, and that made it much, much worse.

"Listen to me, Rachel," Mr. Schue began, urgent. "It's not safe for you here anymore. That attack in the auditorium? That's only the beginning. There will be - no, there already _is_ something else coming after us - after _you_ , and they won't stop until they have you. Lima isn't safe for you anymore, do you understand?"

Rachel drew back, startled. _They won't stop until they have you._ For a moment she was trapped in her dream again, listening to a voice that shook the earth. She drew a breath and nodded at Mr. Schue.

"We're leaving for a safe place," he continued. "The _only_ safe place, for people like you."

Rachel frowned at him. In any other circumstances she might have hit him for singling her out like that, but something in his tone told her he meant more than her learning disabilities. She searched his face for a clue, something that would make his words clearer, but Mr. Schue was as unreadable as her schoolbooks. Then she heard it--the crash of breaking glass.

"Are your dads home?" Mr. Schue asked urgently, as if it were normal for parents to wreck their houses' windows. Rachel shook her head. The teacher pressed a finger to his lips and released her, clopping away to lift Quinn up from the sofa.

"Come on," Mr. Schue hissed, making his way as quietly as possible to the door. He jumped at the muffled screech of tearing wood that came through the ceiling.

"Was that my closet?" Rachel squeaked, casting a fearful glance at the ceiling as she opened the door. "Are there people up there _thrashing my wardrobe?_ "

"Not people."

Mr. Schue led the way down the lawn to his car, motioning for Rachel to get into the backseat. He set Quinn down beside her; the cheerleader's head jerked with the force of the car door slamming shut. Rachel reached for the seatbelts, strapping herself and Quinn in as their teacher threw himself behind the wheel. She had a feeling they'd need all the safety implements they could get.

She wasn't wrong. An inhuman shriek rent the air. Two scaly, twisted claws punched through the Berry’s front door, and wood rained on the lawn as an oversized-bat version of Suzy Pepper marched through the wreckage. She looked at the car, eyes blazing behind her broken glasses. Large, leathery wings flared up behind her, and she swooped straight for them.

Mr. Schue floored the gas.

They shot down the road, the telltale flap of giant wings booming close behind. Rachel clutched at her seatbelt in horror. Cars honked as Mr. Schue swerved, weaving through traffic like a madman.

"You okay back there?" He yelled, banking right. The car thudded over the corner sidewalk, sending Rachel crashing into Quinn. The cheerleader whined in protest.

"Mr. Schue, I know you're speeding out of necessity," Rachel said loudly, scooting away from the grumbling blonde, "but could you please avoid abrupt tur _\- agh!_ " She jumped as a giant Ziploc bag fell into her lap.

"Rachel," Mr. Schue said through gritted teeth, gunning them right past a red light, "please stop talking and give those to Quinn."

She picked up the bag: inside were a few familiar honey-brown squares. "Brownies?" Rachel looked from the bag to Quinn to Mr. Schue in confusion. Quinn shifted in her seat, hazel eyes struggling to open. Rachel gasped. "Oh my god - Mr. Schue, _are you giving her drugs?!_ "

"What?!" The choir director twisted around in his seat. "Why would I be giving her - "

Rachel screamed as the car drifted right, brushing up against a truck on the lane beside them. Sparks flew; metal screeched against metal. Mr. Schue jerked the car back into the lane. Rachel looked at him reproachfully as she sank back into her seat.

"It's ambrosia," he explained, not daring to take his eyes off the road again. "Food of the gods, give her a little bit; it'll help her get better."

"Food of the _what?_ "

"Just do it, Rachel!"

She scowled and ripped the bag open. Sliding over to Quinn, she shook her gently by the shoulder. The cheerleader blinked - once, twice - and Rachel held the brownie up tentatively. "Mr. Schue says you should eat it."

She half-hoped that Quinn would snatch the brownie out of her hands and be done with it. Instead Quinn's brow furrowed, like she was trying hard to grasp what she'd heard. Then the creases smoothed out and her lips parted slightly. Rachel groaned, begrudgingly lifting the brownie to the waiting girl's mouth.

"You owe me one, Mr. Schue," she muttered, plucking crumbs from Quinn's shirt despite herself. The teacher chuckled. For a second it felt like just another madcap drive through the streets of Lima: Semi-conscious cheerleader and a teacher stomping on the gas pedal with his hooves - no big deal. Then a heavy weight dropped right onto the car roof, and they were all back to screaming again.

Mr. Schue swerved wildly left and then right, trying to shake it off. Instead what they got was a squawk, and then claws digging into the roof, peeling it back as easily as if it were the lid of a sardine can. A reptilian face thrust itself into the compartment. The broken glasses dangling from one of its ears were unmistakably Suzy Pepper's.

"Where is he?" she hissed, fixing her fiery eyes on Quinn. _"Where is he?"_

Rachel gazed up at the creature's yellow fangs, the wings flapping in agitation. Then she did the one thing that made her severely question her sanity: She leapt out of her seat -- and punched Suzy Pepper. The monster recoiled, spitting venom everywhere; drops fell on Rachel's already-ruined sweater, burning holes through the fabric.

"Keep doing that!" Mr. Schue veered the car onto the sidewalk. Rachel gaped at him, clutching desperately onto the front seats as they crashed through several newsstands. People dove out of their path, flailing and screaming for dear life. Suzy Pepper still hung from the car's frame, wings flapping like mad to keep her steady. She gave them one more spurt of power, launching herself back in the car and baring her fangs at Rachel.

"You do not interfere in the businessss of the dead," she spat, digging her claws into Rachel's shoulders. She thrust Rachel aside and started advancing on Quinn. "And you, impertinent daughter of - "

"We're almost there!" Mr. Schue pointed madly out the window. The Greyhound station loomed up in the distance, just a couple of blocks away. Rachel locked eyes with her teacher. A silent understanding ran between them. She nodded, recalling all the solos that had ever been stolen from her in glee club, and hurled herself at Suzy.

"I am free -" Rachel huffed, clinging to Suzy's scaly neck, "- to interfere -" Suzy wailed, thrashing about to throw her off, "- with whatever it is -" Rachel rammed her fist again and again into the monster's back, "- I choose to -" Mr. Schue was yelling something; the car lurched violently to the right, "- interfere with!"

An almighty crash broke through the chaos. Suzy lurched headlong through the windshield. Rachel flew into Quinn's side, jolting the cheerleader awake. The car shuddered to a standstill. They'd rammed straight into a lamppost.

"What the hell is your problem, RuPaul?" Quinn rasped, trying to shove Rachel away from her. The blonde looked around, eyes widening as she took in the destruction around her. "What did you - _Di immortales_ , Manhands, was I not _dead_ enough for you?"

"You two okay?" Mr. Schue wheezed, unbuckling his seatbelt and looking slightly dazed. Rachel nodded numbly, following Quinn out the door. The front end of the car had crumpled like paper. Suzy Pepper lay unmoving across the hood, wings bent every which way. Rachel stared in shock as the monster slowly crumbled into dust.

"Come on." Mr. Schue steered them away from the crash. His firm grip on Rachel's shoulder told her she ought to act as normally as she could. People were staring and pointing from across the street; Rachel could see a few of them taking out phones, presumably calling 911.

"Didn't they see - didn't they see Suzy?" she asked, trying to keep in step as her companions practically jogged to the station. She could hear the outraged cries of bystanders, calling after them to wait for the ambulance. "Surely a - a dissolving _flying monster -_ "

"No, Rachel," Mr. Schue answered, marching them into the station lobby and veering straight for the ticket booth. "Mortal minds aren't built to process the existence of magic and monsters. The Mist - the veil that separates the magical from the normal - hides it from them, bending reality to make them see things in a way they _can_ comprehend." He gestured them to some plastic seats, patting Rachel on the shoulder as she and Quinn sat down. "They won't see anything more alarming than a car crash."

"Mortals?" Rachel asked. She grappled with the new information. It wasn't the absurdity of it all that she struggled with; after being hounded through the streets by a flying banshee she figured she could take anything. But the way Mr. Schuester said "mortal," like she was something _else_ \-- it just didn't make any sense. _What else could she be?_

"Mist? Magic? _Mortals?_ " She looked helplessly after Mr. Schue as he left to join the ticket line. Some people were looking at the teacher's shaggy legs and hooves in confusion. For a split-second she wondered if they really did see nothing more than - what, hideous pants? From the corner of her eye she saw Quinn snort in amusement, and Rachel rounded on her.

"What's going on?" she demanded, hoping desperately to get some answers. "Those brownies in the car - the monsters - _Mist? Mortals?_ " She searched the other girl's impassive face. "What's all this - this madness about? And where are we going?"

At least whatever Mr. Schue had said about the brownies looked to be true - already Quinn was sneering and scowling as if she'd never been knocked out. The blonde raised an eyebrow at her in disdain. Rachel could almost imagine her silently debating whether or not to show some mercy and answer.

"We're going to New York," Quinn finally said, turning away. "To Camp Half-Blood."


	4. A Shortcut to Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.

  
As it turned out, Camp Half-Blood was _not_ part of some neo-Nazi plan to exterminate the ambitious half-Jewish products of interracial marriages.

Once Rachel was assured of that fact, she took the seat next to Quinn's without much protest. It was one thing to eventually call her dads and say that she was travelling to New York without so much as an autograph book for signing, it was quite another to say that she was being shuttled to some death camp. She wasn't sure which one would upset them more, and after leaving a wrecked house behind her she wasn't in any hurry to find out.

"It's a shame though," Quinn sniffed, plastering herself to the bus window in an attempt to put more space between her and Rachel. "You could use some gassing." That earned her a reproachful glare from Mr. Schuester.

"There won't be any gassing in camp." The choir director leaned over the armrest and patted Rachel's arm reassuringly. "There _might_ be maiming, a few near-death experiences here and there - "

He smiled when Rachel nervously pulled her arm away. "Don't worry, those are just the occupational hazards of being a demigod."

Rachel raised her eyebrow. She was quickly learning that facial cues were her best bet when it came to Mr. Schuester. What with all the information he was dropping on her, she'd wear out her vocal cords before they reached New York. Then what would she do when she couldn't scream in excitement?

"Demigods - half-man, half-god," Mr. Schuester said, enunciating every word as slowly as possible.

"God?" Her eyebrow shot up even further. Rachel figured she was spending too much time with Quinn. In any case, the expression was still appropriate; despite her countless social crucifixions, she _highly_ doubted that she was some child of _God._

"Ah, no, not capital-G 'God'," their teacher said hurriedly. "That's getting into the metaphysical. I meant gods, as in the ones that rule over weather, the sun, wisdom, all that. The _Greek_ gods. Demigods are their children."

"Divine bastards," Quinn muttered beside her. The blonde folded her arms over her chest and glared at the blur of Ohio rushing past their window.

"Mr. Schuester, I doubt your position as Spanish teacher excuses you from knowing classical history." Rachel frowned. It was basic fact; perhaps it was a sign of the woeful state of education in their district that a _teacher_ could be so uninformed. "But in case you really aren't aware of the march of both science _and_ western civilization, allow me to update you: The Greek gods are _myth._ "

"Yes, and I'm an imaginary friend born from your extensive psychological damage," Quinn said, still looking determinedly out the window. She tapped her armrest in agitation. "The gods are alive, and unlike columns and statues, you're one of the less decorative signs that they're around."

Rachel stared at her. The bitterness in Quinn's voice was surprising. Mr. Schue probably noticed too, because he gave a nervous laugh and continued, "The gods are tied to Western civilization, Rachel. They've been around since the Greeks, and they've been moving from place to place since then: Rome, Spain, England - wherever the flame of the West is strongest."

He shrugged. "They might go under different names, or they might go by none at all. But look at all the signs. Architecture, music, government, currency -- right now, America even uses the eagle of Zeus! The point is that they're still here, influencing mortal lives -- and every now and then, having demigods like you. Kids with abilities and powers inherited from their godly parent. You may have heard of some of them," Mr. Schue added with a smile. "Thomas Edison, Winston Churchill, Amelia Earhart, Elvis, The Beatles -- demigods have been shaping the course of human history for millennia."

"And wrecking it, if they live long enough," Quinn interrupted. She glanced pointedly at Rachel. "Both the world wars? All their fault. The last one was because some kids of Hades had a problem with the sons of Zeus and Poseidon." She shifted a little lower in her seat and scowled. "Probably why those three aren't allowed kids anymore."

Rachel looked to Mr. Schue for confirmation. The teacher was gazing thoughtfully at Quinn, like he was trying to figure out what was going on in her head. Finally, he turned to Rachel and nodded. "The Big Three swore an oath not to have any more children. They're the oldest and strongest of the gods. Their children are too powerful. Too dangerous."

"Oh, and being attacked in a burning auditorium _and_ your own home isn't dangerous?" Rachel scoffed. That last statement was just ridiculous. Insane god hybrid or not, what she'd gone through was the very definition of danger. "I hope the gods have insurance, Mr. Schuester, because if Suzy Pepper damaged my Streisand memorabilia I intend to collect."

"It's not just the Big Three kids that monsters hunt," Mr. Schue clarified, fidgeting in his seat. "All demigods give off a scent. It gets stronger as you age, and - "

"You're making us sound like Worcestershire sauce," Quinn grumbled. Rachel had to stifle a laugh.

" - and also when you find out about your true nature," the teacher went on, shooting them a warning look. "That's why they send satyrs like me, to protect you and bring you to camp."

"And you're _brilliant_ at your job, Mr. Schue." Quinn nodded at the burnt sleeves of Rachel's sweater. Mr. Schue glared at her.

"You don't seem to be new to all of this," Rachel mused, turning in her seat to observe the other girl.

Quinn sighed, as if resigning herself to the horrible task of answering, and shook her head. "I've been a camper since I was nine." Rachel stared at her. "What? Don't look like the sword-swinging type to you?"

Rachel nodded absently, looking Quinn over with new eyes. It shouldn't have been surprising, really. No freshman could have had the strength and skill to make Cheerios without training, so it had to come from somewhere. Then there was Quinn herself, and that constantly-brewing storm in her hazel eyes. Now that she thought about it, the idea of Quinn being half-god just seemed to make sense. The way she owned the school, that presence that made people shut up and follow -- facing down those bear-giants in the auditorium was just icing on an already obvious cake.

"Hello? Underworld to Manhands," Quinn said, waving a hand in front of her nose.

"I'm sorry." Rachel shook her head and fixed her gaze on her shoes. The bitterness in Quinn's voice was starting to make sense too. She fumbled with the hem of her skirt before whispering, "Did they ever help you?"

She felt Quinn stiffen beside her, heard Mr. Schue gulp nervously somewhere to her left. Rachel didn't dare look up. She clasped her hands together nervously. Minutes passed, and from the tension in the air she was almost thankful her question was going to go unanswered.

"No," Quinn finally murmured. Rachel looked up in time to see her turn away, fold her arms and once again stare out the window. For once, in the faint reflection on the glass, her eyes looked absolutely still. "I’ve never even met him."

Rachel leaned back, gazing up at the ceiling. From the corner of her eye she could see Mr. Schue struggling to look for a bright side. She doubted he'd find any. A camp for the unwanted children of the gods -- it made Quinn's gassing suggestion sound almost peachy.

"It's probably my mother, isn't it?" she said, to no one in particular. "My dad and my daddy, they've always been around."

To her right, she heard Quinn sigh. She wondered what _her_ reaction had been when she found out. The same crushing realization, maybe? As far as Rachel knew, Quinn still had both her mortal parents, so it couldn't have been that bad. Her mother would have been there to hold her, anyway -- not traipsing around Olympus, attending to whatever godly duties she had with hardly a thought for anything else.

Rachel closed her eyes, breathing out a sigh of her own. She liked it better when her mom was just a surrogate. Now, imagining all that power at her mother's fingertips - it just made it harder to believe that she cared.

*  
They spent the rest of the journey in silence. Mr. Schuester tried to entertain them by rapping, but every time Quinn just rolled her eyes and Rachel just pretended to sleep. By the time they boarded the Long Island Rail at Penn Station, the poor goat was mournfully chewing his way through his twelfth soda can.

Rachel couldn't even bring herself to be excited about New York. It was a very disappointing first trip; the knowledge that she was headed to camp by virtue of her absentee mom just hung over every fleeting glimpse. She was glad they didn't go sightseeing. After finding out that the Empire State Building was the modern entrance to Olympus, she didn't trust herself to see any more of the city without hoping for some sign from her mother.

Add to that the three old ladies they'd spotted as they transferred to the Montauk line, and it was a pretty horrible introduction to New York. Rachel had pointed out the three grandmas huddled over a bench, knitting what looked like a gigantic argyle sweater. They had been arguing over a broken string, looking about ready to stab each other with needles. Eventually one of them had looked straight at Rachel and winked, waving a hand. The string had repaired itself immediately.

Mr. Schue, unfortunately, chose that time to look. He'd ended up balking and herding them into an already-crowded compartment. Quinn complained about the crowd the whole way through.

The only upside was that the taxi they took from the Montauk station had good music. The cabbie had winked at Rachel from the rearview mirror and put in a CD. Soon enough, the original Broadway cast of RENT was serenading them from the speakers. Rachel couldn't resist a smile. Mr. Schue was so relieved he started singing along. Even Quinn seemed a little bit happier.

Eventually Mr. Schue tapped their cabbie on the shoulder. "This is us."

Outside the window was a hill, trees, and a whole expanse of grassy nothing. The driver peered at them through the rearview mirror. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Mr. Schue said, ushering them out. He slapped a few bills into the cabbie's palm and grinned. "It's a shortcut."

"Is it really?" Rachel asked, following Quinn and Mr. Schue up the hill. There was nothing around for _miles_ , just trees dotting the landscape. A clump of poplars loomed directly in front of her, right at the peak. She briefly considered the possibility that all of it was a scam. Then she remembered Quinn's reflection from the bus, and she decided if it was all an elaborate joke it would've involved a better story than neglectful Greek gods.

"Sure it is," Mr. Schue said. He reached the crest of the hill and turned to face her, patting one of the poplar trunks.

"I'm gonna go ahead, Mr. Schue," Quinn announced, flashing him a winning smile. "I don't want to be seen with a gorgon in a sweater." She trudged pass him without even looking back.

Rachel drew level with Mr. Schuester and frowned. "I'm not half-gorgon, am I?"

"Of course not. But if you were," Mr. Schue winked and stepped aside, "this would be a pretty good place to die."

Rachel gasped.

A valley stretched out below her, acre upon acre spreading from the base of the hill, right to the glittering waters of Long Island Sound far on the horizon. Buildings were scattered about the landscape; she almost squealed when she saw the amphitheater. Behind those, straddling the line of the beach, was what looked to be a vast wood. It occupied almost a quarter of the whole valley. Just south of it lay more strawberry fields than even John Lennon would know what to do with, and closer still, sunlight broke on the surface of a lake dotted with canoes.

The danger and the confusion, the fear and the revelations, even the sixteen-hour travel time -- all of it seemed to fall away as she took her first steps pass the poplar trees. Sunlight laid a path of dappled grass at her feet. Rachel was grinning so hard she was pretty sure her face would split in half.

"This is it, Rachel," Mr. Schue declared with a sweep of his arm. "Welcome to Camp Half-Blood."

*  
Their first stop was the Big House. It was the building closest to the hill, a four-story manor with a wraparound porch, painted in blue with white trim. A brass eagle weathervane spun lazily on the roof. A curtain flapped in the attic window. A shadow seemed to pass behind it, but Mr. Schue steered Rachel up the front stairs before she could take another look.

Lawn chairs were scattered all over the porch, and grouped around a card table was the oddest assortment of people Rachel had ever seen: a chubby-faced man in a tiger-striped Hawaiian shirt and purple running shoes, sipping from a soda can; a tall, awkward boy with dark hair; and a blonde woman lounging in a deck chair, wearing sunglasses and an all-too-familiar red tracksuit.

" _Coach Sylvester?_ " Rachel spluttered. The woman glanced up, looking over the top of her glasses. "What are you doing here?"

"She's the activities director," Mr. Schue said. He glanced at the man in the Hawaiian shirt. "And that's the camp director over there."

Rachel looked from the cheerleading coach to the man who looked like an oversized cherub and back again. She knew Mr. Schue wasn't lying, but neither of them seemed particularly suited to their job descriptions. Sue Sylvester smirked at her and pulled off her sunglasses.

"I know what you're thinking, Berry," she said, sitting up and leaning closer. "Didn't myth say Chiron the centaur was the mentor of heroes? Well, let me tell you, the gods don't have much patience with intestinally-challenged farm animals. Add to that the fact that one in ten thousand monsters is at risk of heart disease, and it was only a matter of time before they brought me in to whip the saturated fat out of their underdeveloped spawn."

She tweaked the zipper of her tracksuit. "Besides, who did Chiron train anyway? Meatheads with weak heels and bleak futures. Whereas I pick up twins, train them to within an inch of their lives, spit out Rome. Only reason it wasn't built in a day was because those two didn't find me earlier."

"Are you referring to Romulus and Remus? Because I'm pretty sure they were raised by a she-wolf, Ms. Sylvester, and - " Sue pursed her lips, as if she were waiting for Rachel to realize something. A beat passed, pieces flying into place in Rachel's mind, and then it hit her. _"Oh."_

"Goodness, child, did you think she was a nymph perhaps?" The chubby man set down his Diet Coke and began shuffling a deck of cards. He had bloodshot eyes, and one whiff told Rachel his regular scent was Eau de Brewery. Not that the man seemed to care at all about her presence; he merely started dealing out hands.

"Mr. D, this is Rachel Berry." Mr. Schue bowed. "I've already oriented her - "

"Yes, yes, welcome to Camp Half-Blood, Racquel - "

"Rachel," Coach Sylvester corrected, plunking herself down on a lawn chair and picking up a hand of cards.

" - yes, _Rachel_ ," Mr. D amended. "Now, William, take a seat. Pinochle's best played with four."

"Yes, sir," Mr. Schue said quickly, dropping into the chair next to Sue. Rachel stared at all of them, not quite sure what was going on. She tapped Mr. Schue's shoulder, but he simply shook his head. He glanced fearfully at Mr. D, like he was afraid he'd get zapped for talking.

Rachel looked at the chubby man and shrugged. Answers were answers no matter who they came from. She poked his arm. "Excuse me. I don't mean to interrupt - "

"But you do," Mr. D sighed, setting down his cards. He fixed his bloodshot eyes on her, and for a split-second they seemed to blaze with purple fire. Rachel felt something in her mind tighten, preparing to snap. Then the man turned away and waved a hand over the table. A glass of wine appeared, as if it had been woven out of the air itself. Suddenly, despite the clear blue sky, thunder rumbled.

"Sorry, Father!" Mr. D yelled back. "Force of habit!" He pursed his lips and snapped his fingers. The wine turned into another can of Diet Coke.

"Don't make me put you in a twelve-step program, D," Sue said evenly. She tossed a card onto the table. "Your restrictions still apply, and if you weren't a walking vat of fermented wort you wouldn't be in this bastion of failure in the first place."

Mr. Schue and the dark-haired boy flinched, but the camp director seemed unruffled. "One nymph, one, and I'm sentenced to a century of watching over these useless brats. But who am I to question the Lord of the Sky?"

"Your father is Zeus?" Rachel blurted out. She took in the striped shirt, the purple shoes, the brewery smell. "Oh my gosh - you're Dionysus, aren't you?" She clapped a hand over her mouth as Mr. D slowly and deliberately turned to face her.

"It doesn't do to throw names around so casually, young lady. Names have power. And you best believe that my father's orders are the only things keeping me from strangling you with a grape vine. Berry, was it?" He narrowed his eyes. Purple flooded her vision. She was assaulted with images of soldiers running mad with blood lust, sailors screaming as they turned into dolphins, vines choking people to death. Then Mr. D turned back to his cards, and suddenly all the visions were gone.

"That's an interesting name to confront _me_ with, godling. The next time you do, I'll make sure it's a bit more fitting."

Rachel stood stock-still. The threat of madness was not a pleasant feeling. She caught Mr. Schue's eye and he shrugged, grimacing. He was a satyr; when it came to Dionysus there wasn't much he could do.

"And on that lovely note of welcome - Hudson," Sue barked, slapping the dark-haired boy. "Go show Little Miss Impertinent around. And don't spare her the lava from the climbing wall or I swear on the Styx I will torch your sorry hide."


	5. One Big Happy Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.

  
If the BFG had a name, it would be Finn Hudson.

He led her through the camp grounds with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old hopped up on candy. Unfortunately, this meant he kept flashing Rachel really wide smiles, and she had to crane her neck to return them. They'd only reached the nearby volleyball pit and her nape was already aching.

"So, you _don't_ want to play against any Apollo kids," Finn said as they passed by. He waved at several of the campers. "They're crazy good at stuff like volleyball. You're gonna look really uncool."

Rachel nodded absently. She doubted she'd have a shot at being cool anyway, despite the pointers. A lot of the campers looked older than her, and even if they weren't, they were still much, much taller. Case in point: Finn. His orange camp T-shirt looked like one of Rachel's dresses. She'd gone through enough schools to know that once people literally looked down on you, the figurative just followed.

They cut across a stretch of strawberry field. There was a blonde girl skipping along the plants, waving a hand over them. With each pass, the strawberries seemed to grow a little bigger.

"Who's that?"

"Oh, that's Brittany." Finn smiled at the puzzlement on her face. Apparently he liked being the guy who explained things. "So Mr. D's like this fertilizer for fruit-bearing plants, right? They kind of grow faster when he's around. B's his kid, so she kind of has the same effect."

"Why are you growing strawberries?"

"Well, the Big Guy up at Olympus banned Mr. D from growing grapes. We sell the strawberries to restaurants and stuff in the city, so we have money to run the camp." He steered her out of the strawberry patch. "Come on, let's take a look at the woods."

"The woods" turned out to be a place for campers to meet instant death. Or, in Finn's words, a place "stocked with monsters so you can test yourself,” or play a bizarre death-match version of Capture the Flag. He offered to lead her through it. Fortunately for Rachel she had no weapons, so they ended up heading for the armory instead.

They went round the stables. Rachel snuck a peek inside. Winged horses whinnied at her from all directions; feathers littered the floor. Finn grabbed her shoulder.

"That's the armory." He pointed at a stocky stone building a few meters away. Rachel took a precautionary step back. A Latina was emerging from the doorway, dressed in full Greek battle armor. She didn't look happy.

"That there's Santana, she's from Cabin Five. Oi! San!" Finn waved enthusiastically, putting on his goofiest smile. The girl stared at him, and proceeded to acknowledge his greeting with a violent swipe of her spear.

"She's not very...friendly," Finn whispered as he led Rachel in a mad scramble down the path. He pointed out what looked to be a replica of the Coliseum as they passed. "That's the arena, where we have sword practice and stuff. Wrestling, some sparring, cabin challenges -"

"With real weapons?" Rachel asked incredulously. It didn't seem very responsible to arm preteens with swords. Finn just looked at her like she'd grown a second head.

"Yeah." Wincing, he added, "Mostly it's just a place for Santana to beat people up. Seriously, no one wants to spar with her anymore."

They stopped by a few other places: the metal-working shop, full of kids hammering out their own weapons; the canoeing lake, filled with campers swimming with some water spirits; the sing-along amphitheater. As they circled back to the Big House, Finn gestured at a large marble pavilion sitting on top of a hill. It was lined with white Grecian columns on all sides.

"That's the dining hall."

There were no roofs, no walls. Rachel eyed the large gaps between the columns critically. "What do you do when it rains?"

"The camp has magic borders," Finn shrugged. "Keeps out bad weather, monsters, mortals. Like, a pizza delivery guy could look in and he'd only see a strawberry farm. That's kind of why it's safe for us." He grinned at her. "No random monsters turning you into lunch. Unless they're stocked in the woods or summoned in. Maybe if a god let them in, too, but they've never really wanted to do that."

"What stellar parenting principles."  
*  
Finally, they reached the cabins. There were twelve of them, set up in a giant U-shape around a space the size of a soccer field. Large symbols and numbers hung above each doorway. Two cabins, One and Two, formed the base of the U. The other cabins were lined up on either side: odd-numbered ones on the left, evens on the right.

Each building was decorated differently. Cabin One was the biggest, its tall marble columns flanking a burnished bronze door; bolts of lightning seemed to streak across the polished surface. Two looked like a slimmer version, its walls carved with images of peacocks. Strangely enough, both cabins - and Three, close by - looked empty.

The other cabins, on the other hand, were like weirdly-designed beehives. Smoke spilled from the small smokestacks jutting out from Cabin Nine's roof; through the open door of Cabin Six, Rachel glimpsed a couple of blond kids arguing over some plans drawn on a SMART board. She scrunched up her nose as they passed Cabin Five: it was painted a riotous red, like it had been pelted by paint balloons, and above the doorway hung a stuffed boar's head.

"Finn!" From under the boar strode a muscled boy in camouflage pants and a camp T-shirt; he sported a neatly-trimmed mohawk. Finn waved him over and clapped him on the back.

"Rachel, this is Puck, son of Ares. Puck, Rachel." The mohawked boy leered at Rachel, looking her up and down as if he were undressing her in his head. Rachel forced a polite smile onto her face and tried to tug Finn away. Unfortunately her guide didn't seem to get the hint; he just looked at her, bemused.

"New girl, huh?" Puck slung an arm around her shoulders. "How'd you like some private lessons on how to handle a sword?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at her. Rachel pushed him away and scowled. Apparently no one had bothered to give _him_ any lessons on how to choose good pickup lines.

"Shut it, Puckerman." Another boy was headed for them, curly hair spilling over his forehead. He looked older than Finn and Puck. Rachel almost rolled her eyes. No doubt this one was going to try even more archaic pickup lines on her as well.

"No hitting on the newbies," the boy told Puck sternly, pointing the grumbling boy back to Cabin Five. He turned to Rachel. "Don't mind him, he just likes to believe the new kids don't have standards. Jesse St. James, head counselor for the Apollo cabin." He stuck out his hand.

"Rachel Berry," she said, taking it.

Finn fidgeted uncomfortably beside her. "Hey, Jesse."

"Finn." The boy smiled warmly at both of them. None of the warmth reached his eyes. "So, Rachel, which cabin are you assigned to?"

"I don't know yet," Rachel admitted. She didn't even know how cabins were assigned. Finn had tried explaining it when they got there, but he ended up stumbling over details and giving himself a headache. She looked around, hoping to see some kind of welcome banner over one of the doors.

"Ah," Jesse sighed, gazing at the cabins wistfully. "I remember when I used to be clueless." He started walking down the line of cabins, Finn and Rachel hurrying after him. "Don't worry, the system's easy. Twelve cabins, one for each Olympian."

He pointed at Cabin Eight. "Except that one, that's honorary. Artemis doesn't have children. And then those cabins at the end - Two, that's Hera - Three, for Poseidon..." He glanced back, smirking like he was testing them. "I trust you've figured it out by now? Cabin assignments depend on who your godly parent is."

"What if you don't know who it is?" Rachel asked. A jolt of fear ran through her. What if they kicked her out? What if they shoved her pass the borders and said it was all a mistake? She didn’t have too many options in case they threw her out of camp—no thanks to Suzy Pepper—and while it would make for a good anecdote in her future autobiography, she wasn’t too thrilled about being homeless.

Finn coughed. "You go to Cabin Eleven. Hermes."

"Right, thank you, Finn," Jesse said, nodding at him like he was a kindergartner answering a question properly. Finn scowled and glared at his shoes. "He's the god of travelers, so Cabin Eleven welcomes all."

It seemed like an acceptable arrangement. Rachel was about to ask Finn what his problem was when a worrying thought struck her. "Does that mean you never find out who your Olympian parent is?"

"Not unless you get claimed." Jesse smirked. Obviously _he_ had no problems in that department. "It's when they send a clear sign telling everyone you're their child. Usually, when campers show skill or talent connected to their parent - that's when it happens. It's very rare though." He paused, dramatically putting a hand over his heart. "Most people, they languish in Eleven, waiting for a sign that will never come."

He stopped in front of the last cabin on their side of the field. It looked like a regular old summer camp building, albeit one that must have been built eons ago. A silver caduceus glimmered from above the open doorway. Rachel glimpsed a mess of sleeping bags and campers. There seemed to be too many for the place to hold.

Jesse knocked loudly on the doorframe. A tall, thin Asian boy stepped outside. He had slightly elfish features and a mischievous smile that dropped the moment he saw Jesse. Rachel figured he was the Hermes head counselor.

"Mike," Jesse greeted, shaking the boy's hand. "This is Rachel Berry; she'll be staying at your cabin."

The boy studied Rachel, like he was trying to figure out if she'd be a useful addition. Rachel straightened up, giving him her best 'confident diva' face and hoping it would work its magic. He glanced at the crowd of campers behind him. One of them waved back; they were all listening in.

"Regular or undetermined?"

"Undetermined," Jesse answered with a beatific smile. "Like Finn."

A collective groan rose from the cabin's occupants, but Rachel ignored them. She wheeled around to look at Finn, the less-than-warm welcome bringing back all that Jesse'd said about claiming. The moment their eyes met she knew his heart was sinking faster than hers.

"See, Rach," he muttered, scuffing his sneaker against the ground. "Told you Apollo kids make you look uncool."

Standing there, fists stuck roughly in his pockets, he didn't seem so tall anymore. She wondered how long he'd spent waiting for a sign from the gods. Worse yet, she wondered how long he'd spent being told they wouldn't send one.

"Come on, you guys," Mike said, leading them both inside. He shot Jesse a dirty look as he passed. "Rachel, right? Sit tight, I'll go steal you some supplies from the camp store."

*  
Darkness fell, and the wail of a conch horn echoed throughout the camp grounds. Activity in the Hermes cabin immediately picked up as its twenty-plus occupants scrambled to their feet, all of them eagerly talking as they headed for the door. Mike stopped by the corner spot Rachel had found for herself and handed her a bag of toiletries.

"They haven't restocked yet, so it's not much," he said. He stole a glance at Finn. The boy was sitting next to Rachel, glowering at the wall opposite. "You two should get up. It's dinner time."

Rachel nodded and Mike strode out the door. She heard his thin voice fighting to rise above the hubbub as he called for Cabin Eleven to fall in.

She and Finn managed to line up with the rest of their cabinmates as they trooped to the dining pavilion. Other campers were marching out of their cabins too. The air was a tangle of laughter and conversations. Cabin Eight, which had looked ordinary enough that afternoon, glowed a bright silver in the distance.

She craned her neck, looking for Quinn. For a moment she thought she saw her in line with the Athena kids from Cabin Six; she ended up silently cursing them all for having misleading blond hair. Her search ended soon after: several dozen satyrs and about a dozen forest nymphs and water spirits joined them, adding to about a hundred-odd campers. Even for Rachel Berry, it was too big a crowd.

They spilled into the dining pavilion. The whole area was lit with blazing torches, set in holders on every marble column. Right in the middle of the hall, a huge fire roared in a bathtub-sized brazier. There were tables for each cabin, all covered in white cloth with purple trim. Rachel had to fight for a spot on table eleven's benches; there were so many of them, even Mike had to squeeze in for a seat.

Once she got enough space at the table, she restarted her search for Quinn, scanning each table in turn. There was a boy in a wheelchair parked at table nine; an African-American girl and an effeminate boy were arguing over a jacket at table ten.

Mr. Schue and the other satyrs were sharing table twelve with Mr. D, his kids, and Coach Sylvester. Brittany - the girl from the strawberry patch - stood a little off to the side, hugging a Latina that Rachel recognized was the one they'd run into at the armory. The girl - Santana - said goodbye and made her way over to table five. She shoved Puck off his place at the bench and sat down. Nearby, in eerily similar fashion, Jesse St. James was lording it over the rest of table seven.

None of them were sitting with Quinn.

Finally her eyes fell on the clump of empty tables on the far end of the pavilion. Two, three, and eight were empty, just like Jesse had said they would be. Sitting alone at table one, though, was a girl with blond hair tied back in a familiar ponytail.

Rachel blanched. Tugging insistently on Finn's sleeve, she whispered, "That's the Zeus table, isn't it?"

"What?" Finn peered reluctantly over his shoulder, following her gaze. "Yeah, so? What about it?"

Rachel frowned. "Camp rules dictate that campers occupy the seats at their cabin's assigned table, correct?" She pursed her lips together as Finn nodded. "Then why is Quinn at the table for the Zeus cabin? She said herself that the oldest gods - "

" - The Big Three," Finn cut in. "And I don't get what the big deal is, it's just a table. She's not even sitting with anyone."

"You're missing the point here, Finn!" Rachel jabbed a finger impatiently at him. "Unless you're implying that three all-powerful, immortal beings broke what appears to be an ancient oath, _Quinn_ is - "

"Sitting where she should," Mike interrupted, swatting her windmilling arms out of the air. "Calm down, new kid. She's soloed that table five years running."

Rachel twisted around to watch Quinn again. It was strange, seeing the head cheerleader sitting alone at a table. It almost made her feel better about practically hanging off her spot on the Hermes bench. She wondered if that was why Quinn was so aggrieved during their talk on the bus. Rachel couldn't fault her; if she had an absentee parent who doomed her to a life of sitting alone, she'd be bitter too. Then again, at least she knew who her father was.

"Wait a minute," Rachel said as it dawned on her. "She said she'd never met her father."

"Ha, show me someone who has. Zeus claimed her 'bout a month after she got here, though." Mike shot Finn a sympathetic look and shrugged. "There goes that oath. So yeah, don't trust the gods too much. That's a bigger rule than sitting at the right tables."

"Settle down, half-breeds! Settle down or I will raze your beds! With all of you in them!" Coach Sylvester stood up, pounding her fist on the table as she went. The hall fell silent, and a smile spread slowly across her face. She raised a glass. "To the immortal beings writing my paycheck!"

Quinn rolled her eyes. Everyone else raised their glasses. Apparently they'd all heard that toast before. "To the gods!"

"Go on, ask for a drink," Finn said as they set down their glasses. He tried to smile at her, but it came out more like a pained grimace. "Talk to it."

Rachel studied her glass. She couldn't see how it could work. Then again, their camp director was the wine god - it wouldn't be such a stretch. She took a deep breath and intoned, "Chamomile tea."

The glass filled with liquid. Rachel inhaled the familiar smell; it felt like a long-distance hug from her fathers. She raised her glass at Finn, grinning wide when he clinked his own against it. It was, if she did say so herself, a moment for her future biography.

Nymphs glided forward, interrupting the chapter outline forming in her head as they set down platters of bread, cheese, grapes, brisket. Rachel took care to avoid the roasted dead animals as she placed food on her plate. She was about to pop a grape into her mouth when Finn tugged on her sleeve.

"Come on. Burnt offerings." He got to his feet and joined the queue forming around the central fire, taking his plate with him. Rachel followed suit, still trying to figure out if he seriously meant _burnt_ offerings; she'd burned a batch of "I'm Sorry" cookies once, and they did not smell good. She seriously doubted a council of immortal beings would take it as a form of veneration.

They waited in line behind the other Hermes campers. Kids were sliding the best portions of their dinner into the fire. Rachel watched as Quinn walked up to it and dropped a roll of bread almost angrily into the flames. The blonde mumbled something before turning abruptly back to her seat. Their line moved forward, and Mike stepped up to the brazier too. He pushed a slice of barbecue off his plate and said solemnly, "Hermes."

Then it was Rachel's turn. She picked up a bunch of grapes and tossed it in, trying to keep her nose as far as possible from the burnt-food smell. Not that she had to - the smoke wasn't awful at all. Instead it smelled of her daddy's freshly-baked sugar cookies, and that Chinese takeout they always had whenever Rachel mastered another showtune.

She wondered if her fathers ever knew she was a demigod. It would've made everything a lot easier: For one thing, she would know whose name to say.

Finn cleared his throat behind her. Rachel took one last whiff of the smoke and made up her mind. Bending closer to the fire, she said very clearly, _"Barbra Streisand,"_ her voice loud over the crackle of the flames. Campers and directors alike stared at her as she marched proudly back to her seat and tucked into her meal with relish.

*  
After dinner was the sing-along campfire at the amphitheater. They sat around the wide, stone-lined firepit, roasting marshmallows and devouring s'mores. Jesse and the rest of the Apollo cabin led them through the songs. As much as Rachel wanted to spear the curly-haired boy through with a red hot poker, she had to admit he was good.

In between choruses Rachel caught glimpses of Quinn sitting cross-legged near the fire, mass-producing s'mores and laughing with Santana and Brittany. Apparently the dinner table restrictions fell away in the face of sing-alongs and sugar. She couldn't help but smile; a Quinn with friends - even potentially-violent ones like Santana - was more like the cheerleader she'd grown used to seeing. It certainly made camp feel a little bit more normal.

Finn introduced Rachel to more of their cabinmates. She couldn't say it was his best decision. By the time the next song rolled around, she was coaching them through an operatic reinterpretation of "My Grandma Put On Some Armor." It was so outrageous, even the Apollo cabin stopped throwing marshmallows at them and joined in instead. The campfire immediately turned bright red, and with each shouted verse the flames rose even higher into the air.

By the time the conch horn blew and they all had to amble back to their cabins, the fire was more than twenty feet high and burning an almost blinding gold. Rachel curled into her sleeping bag in the Hermes cabin with a smile. Outside, with the aid of her trusty old megaphone, Coach Sylvester was still yelling at them all for having the audacity to try and roast themselves with an enchanted fire without her.


	6. Cornered and Flagged A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.

She dreamt of Quinn.

She knew it was a dream because there was no way Quinn would consent to being anywhere within two feet of her, and the distance between them was decidedly less than that. Hot breath blew into her face, and the hand against her sternum was pinning her against the wall so forcefully she could feel the stones punching bruises into her back.

For a moment she wondered if there was a god for dreams, and if she could file a complaint. After all, she was confident that her subconscious was more interested in Broadway marquees than vindictive cheerleaders. Then she noticed the cold metal blade pressing against her throat, and all thoughts of angry letters were dropped - because really, if Rachel Berry were to ever dream of Quinn Fabray, it could only involve murder.

"Maybe it should," Quinn hissed, stormy hazel eyes boring into Rachel's. The sword dug a little deeper into her skin, and Rachel felt the warm trickle of blood. "Maybe the world should end, and maybe I'm not the only one who'd want it to."

The pressure against Rachel's chest eased and Quinn retreated, lowering her sword. Her eyes darkened, turning beady and inhuman. The edges of her form rippled and shifted, lines turning into feathers then beaks and claws - a black, whirling mass of birds.

The ground beneath her shook, and Rachel braced herself against the wall as a thousand hungry red eyes turned on her. The steady beat of flapping wings filled the air.

"Won't you sing, little half-blood?"

Rachel flinched. It was the same voice from her first dream, the sound of a slowly-building avalanche, drawing the words out like a sleepwalker in a trance. A woman stepped through the flock. She was dressed in dark robes and a veil, and as she stretched her hand out to touch Rachel's face it became clear that her clothes were made of churning earth.

"Such power for a child." Rachel shuddered as cold fingers traced along her cheek. Through the shifting folds of the woman's veil she saw closed eyes and a lazy grin - the face of someone smiling in her sleep.

"And such opportunity to waste it." The woman's fingertips pressed hard into Rachel's face. The birds wheeled in agitation around them. "Even now your fate approaches. Will you choose the faithless gods? Or will you be wise enough to join me, as others already have?"

She let go of Rachel and started sinking slowly into the ground. "This world will end, demigod. But when they ask you to stand against me, remember this: _You_ do not have to end with it."

*

The dream stayed with Rachel for a whole week. It was incredibly inconvenient because it set her on edge, and everyone seemed bent on hounding her, trying to figure out who her parent was. Her first few days felt like an endless chain of pop quizzes, except infinitely more life-threatening.

She almost drowned during canoeing, when Coach Sylvester upended her boat to check if she could breathe underwater. Brittany tried to make her drink a crate’s worth of wine to see if she’d get drunk. Kurt and Mercedes, the arguing pair from table ten she’d spotted during her first dinner, even ambushed her with an extensive questionnaire about her wardrobe. (They banned her from the Aphrodite cabin the minute she wrote ‘argyle.’)

It was the first time she ever wanted to escape scrutiny. The camp activities were completely new to her (Underwater basket-weaving? Pegasi riding?), and it didn’t help to know that people were judging her every move. That, and from the way the parent question was going, she was pretty sure she’d end up dead before anyone even came close to finding an answer.

Finn tried to comfort her by saying that she’d eventually stop being mystery-of-the-month too, but it did little to ease the pressure. Rachel went through her daily schedule with the constant fear that if she so much as held a sword the wrong way, they’d decide that she was, in fact, the aberrant child of some disgusting mythological creature – or worse, that she was really half-gorgon.

“You probably are,” Quinn said when Rachel made the mistake of mentioning it during Ancient Greek. “Can we get on with this? I kind of have a life to get back to.”

“It wouldn’t be taking so long if you simply ignored the opportunity to insult me.”

“And I wouldn’t be here insulting you if Mr. Schue had volunteers other than Finn. Just shut up and read already.”

Rachel fiddled with the copy of the _Iliad_ lying on her lap. It was her first lesson, and she was being asked to read a dead language. She couldn’t even do that with English, and with the dream still fresh on her mind, she was sure it was better not to parade her disability in front of Quinn. True or not, it clearly wasn’t the best idea to give that kind of information to a girl who _could_ end up pressing a sword to her throat.

Then again, the last thing she needed was Mr. D making a horrifying decision about her parentage based on a scathing reading report.

She took a deep breath, ignoring the eyebrow threatening to disappear past Quinn’s hairline. Keeping her eyes trained on the ground, she declared, “I’m dyslexic.”

“And ADHD, I know. Surprise, you egomaniac, everyone here is. You think you’d have to read this if you weren’t?”

Rachel’s head snapped up. “What?”

Quinn sighed. Apparently she’d given this explanation before. “The dyslexia’s ‘cause we’re hard-wired for Ancient Greek, not English. The ADHD’s our inborn battle reflexes.”

She reached over and flipped the book open. “So congrats, gorgon, you’re officially more of a freak than you used to be.”

Rachel stared down at the text, her jaw dropping when the symbols actually made sense. “Oh my goodness. Is this - I can - “

“Really? You can? Because so far I’ve only heard blubbering,” Quinn interrupted. She took the book from Rachel and tugged her closer, pointing out the words as she read them. “Go on, Stubbles. _Menin aeide thea Peleiadeo Akhileos._ ”

 _Rage -- Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles._

Awe welled up in Rachel -- somehow, she had no trouble understanding what Quinn was reading. It was certainly more than she’d ever gotten from any of the English literature assignments in school.

She cast a quick glance at the other girl. Quinn looked so different from how she’d been in Rachel’s dream, even without factoring in the murderous intentions. She couldn’t say exactly why, just that right then, the blonde looked - well, _better._ It was like she really didn’t have anything to worry about other than getting that day’s lesson over with.

 _And maybe not even that._ Rachel eyed the hand still gripping her sweater before turning back to the page. The symbols stayed mercifully in place before her. Picking up where they’d left off, she recited, _“Oulomenen, he muri Akhaiois alge etheke.”_

She couldn’t help but smirk at the grudging approval Quinn fought to keep off her face.  
*  
Despite the breakthrough in Ancient Greek, Rachel's fears remained, at least to her, thoroughly justified. Mr. Schue kept assigning her different activities in what was obviously a desperate effort to find out her parentage, but the problem was that--tragedy of tragedies--she just couldn't find anything she excelled in.

She wasn't as strong as the Ares kids; Puck, for one, kept beating her at wrestling even when he was too busy trying to cop a feel. Metal-working with the Hephaestus kids ended in lots of burns and a molten-metal flood. The Demeter kids' dedication to whole-grain cereal and the expansion of wheat fields put even her veganism to shame, and she'd felt so uneasy at the archery range, she didn't even stay long enough for Jesse to chase her off.

The only thing Rachel was _r_ _eally_ good at was singing, thanks to several years’ worth of rigorous vocal training, but that wasn’t much of a heroic activity. It certainly wasn't enough to stop the madness: Two notes into her defiant performance of "I'm Not That Girl" from atop Mr. D's card table and the god had given her the choice of returning to her daily schedule or living life as a lawn gnome.

She found the sky appropriately overcast when she trudged into the arena with the rest of the Hermes cabin the next day, the first Friday since her arrival at camp. From what Mr. Schue had told her at breakfast, sword-fighting was the only activity left for her to try, and Santana -- Quinn's terrifying friend and the head of Ares cabin -- was going to be her instructor.

Rachel wasn't really sure how to take that news. She was glad to have an end to the genealogy guessing game, but it seemed wholly unnecessary to have one last round of humiliation before moving on. And if Quinn's behavior was any indication, humiliation was _just_ what her friend had in store.

"Listen up, losers," Santana barked as she strode to the center of the arena, sneer firmly in place. "There's gonna be someone new here today, and if any of you freakshows mouth off about her, I swear to Zeus they'll never find your body."

Well, that was unexpected. Rachel almost dropped the sword she’d chosen from the weapons table. Whispers broke out among her cabinmates, and she beamed as they all turned to look at her. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad as they told her it would be.

Santana arched an eyebrow. "Not you, hobbit."

Rachel gritted her teeth. She’d heard enough about Santana to know that bodily harm was the likeliest outcome if she tried to pick a fight, and she doubted many people got claimed in the camp infirmary. Finn laid a tentative hand on her shoulder, and from his nervous glance she figured they were wondering the same thing: Who else was joining them?

"Who's a hobby?"

Brittany bounded across the arena and straight to Santana’s side, eyes wide and curious. Rachel blinked, confused, as the Latina’s face broke into a split-second smile.

“No one’s a hobby, B,” Santana said, linking pinkies with her friend. “Sword-fighting can be, though.” She turned to face everyone else, scowl slipping back into place. “But if you amateurs don’t treat it as more than that, I will set hellhounds on your sorry asses.”

Brittany nodded at them like hellhounds eating people was perfectly pleasant, and with that they launched into basic stabbing and slashing. Rachel figured she did well enough. (She chose to overlook the inherent awkwardness of attacking straw-stuffed humanoids in Greek armor.) At the very least, Quinn’s ADHD explanation proved true: Her reflexes were good, and thanks to Finn’s whispered suggestion to imagine Santana’s face on the dummies, she managed to deliver her blows with an acceptable amount of vigor.

Eventually they moved on to duelling in pairs. The other Hermes campers moved towards what looked to be their usual partners, and for a moment Rachel was afraid she’d end up alone. She felt a surge of gratitude when Finn ambled over.

“Hold it, Gigantor.”

Finn froze mid-step. Rachel couldn’t hide the horror from her face when Santana elbowed past him. “Coach said I’m in charge of Yentl’s training. You’re with B.”

“But - “

“Did I say you could veto? Now move, Hudzilla. I’ve got a midget to teach.”

Rachel knew she was doomed the moment Finn sighed and shrugged his massive shoulders.

Santana demonstrated thrusts and parries and shield blocks like they were forms of torture. “ _Guard_ , Manhands; are you suicidal?” she’d bark before hitting Rachel in the ribs with the flat of her blade. “Not that far up!” _Whap!_ “Block!” _Whap!_ “Now, move!” _Whap!_ She swung her sword like a food processor on steroids, and by the time she called a break Rachel was literally fearing for her life.

“You look like a Dalmatian,” Brittany observed, poking one of the many bruises blossoming on Rachel’s arms. She held out a bottle of water, swiped from the drinks cooler before everyone else had swarmed it. “So I don’t get why Q calls you a chihuahua when she complains.”

“Perhaps you should correct her choice of insult, then,” Rachel said. She pressed the cold bottle to her aching limbs and continued, “It’s much better to be associated with a Disney classic than Paris Hilton.”

"Don't let Santana catch you saying that." Matt, one of the Hermes campers and Mike's sparring partner, gave both of them a conspiratorial wink. "Broke into the Ares cabin once, she _totally_ had a Paris Hilton phase."

"Oh, yeah," Brittany confirmed. "She had lots, they were all staring from the walls, it was totally creepy."

The other two stared at her. "What were you doing in the Ares cabin?"

Brittany’s answer was drowned out by the shrill cry that echoed around the arena. "All right, break's over; everyone circle up!"

Rachel followed Matt back to the line their cabinmates were forming. She tugged on the straps of her armor. She wasn't sure if it was the noonday sun breaking through the clouds or the glare Santana sent her way, but the bronze breastplate suddenly felt too much like a personal oven.

"Hey," Finn whispered as he sidled up next to her. He straightened up, looking nervous, but Santana was too busy starting on some new technique to notice. "Good to know you're alive."

"Not for very much longer," Rachel shot back, squinting at the sky. She felt close to spontaneously combusting. She wondered if it was okay to discard her armor. Or was that another test, to see if she was resistant to heatstroke? She’d never heard of any gods for sunscreen, but it still wasn't something she'd put past Mr. Schuester.

"Why don't we let the new girl demonstrate?"

Santana's voice broke through her thoughts. The Ares girl planted her hand firmly on her hip and pointed her sword at Rachel. "FYI, Short Stack, that means you."

Between the heat crushing her chest and the fear closing off her throat, Rachel felt dangerously close to fainting. Finn gave her shoulder a tiny shove and she stumbled forward, sword hanging loosely from her grip. The crowd of Hermes campers parted to make way. Mike and Matt gave her supportive waves as she took her place up front. She tried to ignore the fact that both were trying not to look too horrified.

"Since you pansies are all too weak to defeat enemies by force," Santana began, circling her like a shark, "I'm going to show you one way to disarm them."

Rachel narrowed her eyes as Santana stopped and signalled for her to raise her sword. In slow motion, the Latina hooked the flat of her own blade around the hilt and twisted. Brittany clapped when the sword clattered clean out of Rachel's hands.

"Obviously no one else is going to be dumb enough to just let you do it," Santana said. "So for real this time. We spar until someone pulls it off."

Rachel picked up her sword and squared her shoulders. She was sure the fight was going to end in humiliating defeat, but Rachel Berry was anything but a docile victim. Besides, the clouds had thinned by then. At that point it seemed more like a contest of heat resistance than martial skill, so that could work to her favor. After all, she didn't see Santana drink during the break; dehydration could do a lot to temper murderous tendencies.

"Ready," she called out, trying to keep her voice even, and with a loud and incoherent battle cry, Santana charged.

Rachel dove to the left. The blade missed her by inches. She sprang to her feet, just in time to parry another blow. The suffocating heat was gone - at least, she couldn't feel it - and her limbs thrummed with a frantic energy. She didn't know how, but she felt her senses open up. Her opponent leapt for her again, and as Rachel sidestepped, she realized -- she could see Santana's attacks coming.

Santana must have guessed it too. Her eyes narrowed and she stepped back, levelling her sword. They stood there for a second, Rachel trying to catch her breath and Santana studying her. Then, somewhere to her right, Rachel heard Brittany whoop. She didn't know if it was habit, or instinct, or whatever else -- but Santana turned her head, and Rachel took her chance.

She lunged, throwing all her force into the thrust. Bronze caught on bronze. As if on cue, the sky darkened above them. She heard the distant rumble of thunder, the sound shattering her focus. Santana pushed her back, eyes blazing as if daring Rachel to defy her, and even as Rachel blocked hit after crushing hit she felt her arms start to strain. It was only a matter of time before Santana cut her down.

Summoning her last ounce of force, she swung for the hilt of Santana's sword and twisted.

 _Clang._

It fell to the ground. The other campers were silent.

Stunned, Rachel lowered her sword. "I - "

Santana narrowed her eyes. "Show me that again," she spat.

Her arms felt hollow, but from the look on the other girl's face Rachel had no choice but to comply. Lifting her sword, she steeled herself as Santana lunged for her again. This time, she stood no chance -- she blocked, and with one smooth turn, her sword went flying out of her hands.

Finn broke the silence. "That wasn’t even a fair fight anymore."

Santana didn't even bother with a response. Spinning sharply on her heel, she waved Brittany over and marched out of the arena. The Hermes cabin followed, bewildered, just as the rain began to fall.


	7. Cornered and Flagged B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (Please copy-paste to rot13.com to read) Punenpgre qrngu

They spent dinner sitting beneath the world's largest subwoofer.

Or, at least, it felt like it. The rain had stopped in time for dinner, but thunder still boomed above them, each clap shaking plates off tables in the most unwelcomed round of applause Rachel had ever witnessed. Not that the _sky_ could possibly be clapping for her; just that it hadn't stopped since her fight with Santana, and that _had_ to mean something. Right?

 _Boom._ Another roar rocked the pavilion. The nymphs sweeping away the remnants of dinner all stumbled, and glasses and fruit bowls shattered on the tiles. Rachel glanced uneasily at table twelve. Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester were looking up at the clouds, their faces grave. Mr. D was nowhere to be found.

"Zeus must be pissed about something," Finn muttered. He winced as another roll of thunder shook the columns, louder than the last. "Yeah, he definitely is."

"Don't know why he would be," Mike said doubtfully. "It's not like there's been a world war or anything."

"Do you think Quinn would know? She might have some subconscious awareness of her father's moods," Rachel said. They all turned to look at the Zeus table. The blonde in question was staring up at the sky, as confused as the rest of them. Rachel frowned. "Okay, apparently not."

"Whatever it is," Matt chimed in, "I just hope they don't cancel the game."

As if in answer, a conch horn sounded throughout the pavilion. Campers stirred as that one shrill note rose above the unrelenting thunder. Brief as it was, the sound seemed to have cleared the air: People were getting up from their seats, and all along the Hermes table, Rachel could see her cabinmates breaking out into excited grins.

The grins turned into cheers as Santana, Puck, and two other Ares campers ran into the pavilion carrying a giant silk banner. It was about ten feet long and a garish red, painted with a bloody spear and a boar’s head. From the other end of the pavilion, three blonde kids ran in with another banner, this time glistening gray and decorated with a barn owl and an olive tree.

The crowd hummed with a newfound energy. It was time for capture the flag.

“I assume those are the flags?” Rachel shouted over the noise, slapping Finn’s arm to make sure he’d heard.

“Yeah.”

“Is it always Ares against Athena?”

“No,” Finn answered. “They lead often, though.”

“So if we capture a flag, will we have to repaint it?”

Rachel looked the banners over critically. It wouldn’t be incredibly difficult to redesign them; she just wished she hadn’t left her Bedazzler at home. As she sized up the fabric, wondering how many sequins she’d have to use, she caught sight of Santana glaring at her from beneath the Ares flag.

A sudden, terrifying thought occurred to her. “Whose side are we on?”

Finn laughed. “You’ll see.”

Coach Sylvester, trusty bullhorn in hand, announced the teams. Athena had made a temporary alliance with Hephaestus, Aphrodite, and Hermes. Apparently, privileges had been traded--shower times, chore schedules, activity slots, plus lots of stolen makeup for Aphrodite--in order to win support. Mike and Matt high-fived each other, and Rachel figured she knew who’d done the stealing.

Ares, meanwhile, was allied with Demeter, Apollo, Dionysus, and Zeus. It was expected, of course, that Santana would pick Brittany and Quinn, but it was still troubling. From what Rachel had seen at the arena, Brittany was actually a good athlete, and she guessed the same held true for the blonde’s siblings. Then there was Quinn, with her lightning and her apparent hate for all things Rachel Berry -- that would be a problem. She’d probably try to fry the Hermes cabin by association.

The Demeter kids would have an advantage when it came to nature skills, and the Apollo cabin’s archery was a definite asset. Plus there was the Ares cabin itself: about a dozen of the fiercest teenagers ever to pick up weapons, led by none other than Santana Lopez herself. Rachel figured if Quinn didn’t kill her, they probably would.

Coach Sylvester fished a whistle out of her pocket and blew.

“All right, mutts!” she announced. “You know the rules. The creek is the boundary line. The entire forest is fair game. All magic items allowed. No squirrelling your banners away in some hole in a tree trunk, and there shouldn’t be more than two guards. No binding, gagging, or torturing of prisoners, and no maiming or killing allowed. That’s too much paperwork. I’ll be refereeing, the nymphs are on standby to treat any injuries, and you half-breeds better make sure our jobs are easy.”

She spread her hands, and the tables were suddenly laden with equipment: helmets, bows, bronze swords, spears, oxhide shields coated in metal.

Rachel stared at the weapons incredulously. “I thought there shouldn’t be any maiming?”

“It’s a war game,” Mike shrugged. “This is training too.” He handed her a sword and a huge shield emblazoned with a caduceus. Rachel's knees almost buckled under the weight. "Time to show us what you've really got, new kid. You and Finn are guarding the flag."

He held up her helmet. It had a blue horsehair plume on top, like all the helmets on the Athena team. Ares and their allies had red plumes. Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as he fitted the helmet on her head; at least she'd know who to guard their flag from.

She looked over at the Ares team. Santana was talking to Jesse, probably coming up with a plan for the archers. Quinn and Brittany were off to the side, having an intense discussion; she could see Brittany nodding eagerly. She wondered what kind of trouble that meant for their team.

"Blue team!" The boy in the wheelchair -- she remembered him from table nine, Hephaestus -- parked himself up front and started discreetly handing out what looked to be tiny mechanical birds. "These are for communication. You can tell them what to say, and everyone's birds will echo your message, but so far they're limited to transmitting 140 characters."

Rachel examined hers curiously. It was a canary, made entirely of bronze, with gears for eyes and screws on its joints. She slipped it into her pocket.

"Cool, huh?" Finn said, grinning. "This is the best part about having Hephaestus, they always have awesome stuff. What are you naming yours? Kurt said he'd call his Pavarotti. I'm gonna call mine Drizzle."

Rachel thought it went without saying that she'd name hers Barbra, of course. She was about to tell Finn when the Athena head counselor raised his sword. "Blue team, forward!"

The throng of blue-plumed helmets cheered and surged down the path, heading for the east woods. The red team hurled insults as they marched west.

The woods were dark. Fireflies drifted in and out of the trees, but whatever fleeting light they gave only made Rachel more desperate for a flashlight. She could hardly see anyone. The only sign that she was still with the main party was the slight feeling of claustrophobia, and the utterly _un_ -stealthy sound of twigs and leaves being crushed underfoot.

They trooped to a clearing near the far end of the woods. There was an outcrop of rock there, and she heard a whispered _"Maia!"_ in the shadows before Mike flitted into the moonlight with his winged shoes and planted the flag right at the very top.

He stationed Finn and Rachel at the base, as promised. Artie, the wheelchair-bound boy from Cabin Nine, led his siblings as they planted metal balls around the perimeter. They rejoined the main force, and with one last whispered discussion, the rest of the team were off.

Soon their footsteps died away, and the only sound in the clearing was the flutter of their banner in the slight breeze. Rachel felt eerily isolated. "What do we do now?"

"We wait," Finn replied, drawing his sword. The bronze glinted in the moonlight. Rachel gripped the hilt of her own weapon nervously. In the distance, the conch horn blew.

All at once the woods exploded into a cacophony of noise. Yells and whoops, clanking metal, the unmistakable sounds of fighting -- all of it rang in a confusing jumble in the darkness. Barbra and Drizzle, the metal canaries, kept squawking frantic orders for various squads. Rachel pulled Barbra out of her pocket, listening intently.

She heard Artie counting down for a trap, Matt calling for reinforcements, Kurt yelling at someone for setting fire to his jacket. It felt almost comforting, holding the crowing bird in her palm -- it made all the battles sound so distant. She wasn't exactly keen on duelling _anyone,_ especially not with counselors like Mike reminding her the camp was still watching, so it was a relief to hear that no one was closing in on the flag.

Or, well, no one was until _it_ happened. A bloodcurdling shriek rang out across the woods, and with one ominous _zzzzt_ Barbra and Drizzle fell silent.

"What was that?" Rachel demanded, rounding on Finn. He'd played this game before, surely he had some answers.

"I don't know," Finn said, frowning at the canary in his hand. "Maybe Artie set the wires wrong or something?" He held Drizzle up to his ear. "Hey, wait, I can hear something."

Rachel raised her eyebrow, but he motioned for her to do the same to Barbra. Holding the little canary up to her ear, she waited. One beat passed, then two, and she was about to pocket Barbra again when static came fizzing through the bird's metal beak. Faintly, as if from somewhere underwater, she heard what sounded like people groaning.

Finn opened his mouth, looking confused, but Rachel held up her hand. They brought their respective canaries as close as possible to their ears. They would soon regret it.

"BLUE!" Mike's voice roared. "WHO THE _HELL_ WAS DUMB ENOUGH TO KIDNAP _BRITTANY?!_ _"_

Rachel almost dropped her canary. "What?!"

Finn paled. "This is bad. This is _so, so bad."_

"Santana's gone crazy!" Mike yelled. "Took out half the border patrol - we're regrouping, gonna try to get their flag, end the game before she kills someone - "

"Finn, Rachel - she just cut down our traps - " Artie interrupted. "She's headed your way! "

"What?! That's insane, we don't have Britt - "

There was a rustle in the trees, right at the edge of the clearing. Rachel froze. The rest of Finn's protest died in his throat. Hanging in the air, enclosed in tangles of grape vines, were the Hephaestus cabin's metal-ball traps.

"Hi, you two!" Brittany chirped, strolling right up to Rachel and enveloping her in a hug. Finn looked ready to keel over and die.

"B-Brittany," Rachel said faintly, fighting down the urge to run around screaming, because _hello_ she was being hugged by a _ticking bomb of Santana Lopez fury,_ "what are you doing?"

"Quinn didn't ask me to do this," Brittany answered. She let go of Rachel and surveyed the clearing, oblivious to the two flag guards standing slack-jawed beside her. "So that's your flag, huh?"

"Y-you can take it!" Finn blurted out, grabbing Brittany by the shoulders and ignoring Rachel's look of outrage. He pointed wildly at the banner. "Take it! Go! Just - just please don't let Santana kill us."

"She's not gonna kill you, silly." Brittany smiled. "And Q said I should wait for San to take it, so I will." She squatted resolutely down at the base of the outcrop to prove her point.

Rachel and Finn exchanged looks of pure horror. "Rach, what are we gonna _do?"_

They couldn't force Brittany to leave. For one thing, it would leave their flag undefended, and for another, Rachel was certain Santana would behead them even if they brought Brittany back. She gripped Barbra tight; maybe they could call in some Aphrodite kids to help them out.

As if on cue, the canary's metal beak opened. "Hell's comin', y'all." Rachel stiffened. It was Mercedes; she was part of the ambush set up near the clearing. "Satan in three - two - one - _oh good gods."_

 _CRASH._ A bolt of lightning surged right out of the sky, and Rachel knew they'd just lost whatever was left of their last defenses. She drew her sword, sending one last nod to a very pale Finn.

Santana burst into the clearing.

She crouched low, her eyes wild and angry through the slits of her boar's-head helm. In her hand was a five-foot-long bronze spear, its barbed metal tip flickering with red light. Rachel took a cautious step back, praying that it wouldn't be her last night alive. It didn't matter -- Santana wasn't looking at her.

"San!" Brittany waved happily from her spot near the rocks. Santana straightened up, surprised, and Rachel and Finn watched in disbelief as she lowered her spear and walked slowly towards her friend.

"B?"

"Of course it's me, stupid," Brittany said, sticking out her tongue. She got to her feet and lifted Santana's helmet up off her head. "There. You look better without the pig's face on."

Santana's scowl melted into the softest smile Rachel had ever seen on anyone's face. She shot a questioning look at Finn, unsure how to react. "Does this mean our deaths have been postponed indefinitely?"

"Dunno," Finn whispered back, fidgeting. "Maybe if we stay quiet she'll leave us alone." He started backing away.

"Get back here," Rachel hissed, whirling around and stomping her foot. "We have a flag to defend!"

She saw Finn stop just beyond the first line of trees. Triumphant smile spreading across her face, she lifted her sword and waved him back into the clearing. To her surprise, his eyes widened. He shook his head once - left, then right, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to move as little as possible.

Rachel glared and moved forward, determined to find out whatever was wrong this time -- except, she couldn't. Something was holding her in place. Panic flared in her chest, and with a sick feeling in her stomach she looked down. Grape vines had wrapped themselves around her legs, anchoring her to the ground.

"Sorry," Brittany said apologetically, wrenching Rachel's sword out of her grip.

Rachel could only watch helplessly as Finn marched back into the clearing, hands raised and weapon nowhere in sight. Right behind him, pressing a silver flashlight to his back, was Quinn.

"Nice work, B," Quinn said, smirking. She stepped past Finn as vines snaked up the boy's legs. "And you, S. Clearing the way for me like that? You make an excellent bulldozer."

"Fuck you, Pikachu," Santana growled from somewhere behind Rachel. "Right now the only thing that's gonna get bulldozed is your _face."_

"Oh, please. Not like you had a plan to get past Athena."

Rachel twisted around, watching over her shoulder as the two made their way to the base of the outcrop, bickering over who should get the flag. Brittany stood less than a foot to her right, humming and swinging Rachel's sword. Her mind whirring, Rachel turned to face Finn and mouthed, _I have a plan._

His brow furrowed in confusion. Rachel tried not to roll her eyes, instead glancing meaningfully at Brittany and the sword, then at the vines. She looked back at Santana and Quinn; they were still hurling insults at each other, climbing in a furious race to the flag.

"On three," Rachel mouthed, glancing quickly at Brittany. She shut her eyes and prayed to whatever god or goddess was listening that Santana would someday stop hunting her for what she was about to do. "One...two..."

 _"Three!"_ With a strangled cry, she swung her fist up at Brittany, catching her square in the face. The blonde yelped, raising her hands instinctively, and Rachel twisted around and snatched wildly for her sword. She heard Santana roar just as her fingers closed around the leather handle.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," Rachel breathed, ignoring both the sound of her impending demise climbing down the rocks and the fire in her hamstrings as she hacked away at the vines.

"Hurry up, Rach!" Finn yelled as she set to work on his feet, slashing through the tangles. He lurched free and hauled her up. Several feet away, Quinn and Santana landed on the ground with a dull _thud._

Fear and panic crashed over Rachel like a wave. Santana's eyes burned with anger -- but more importantly, clutched in Quinn's hand was the silver banner of Athena. In only the second time she'd ever questioned her sanity, Rachel raised her sword and charged.

Santana ran forward to meet her. She ducked under Rachel's swing and drove an elbow into her ribs, sending her sprawling. Rachel hit the ground so hard the wind was knocked out of her lungs. From the corner of her eye she saw Quinn dart into the trees, but before she could force herself up Santana stamped a foot down on her shoulder.

Pain ran down the length of her arm. She looked up in horror as Santana drew back her spear, the tip spewing red sparks as she pointed it right at Rachel's head.

It never met its target. Finn came lunging out of nowhere, tackling Santana to the ground.

"Go!" he yelled, wincing as Santana rammed the shaft of her spear into his jaw. Rachel staggered to her feet. She took Barbra out of her pocket, and with one last nod at her teammate, she sprinted after Quinn.

The forest was darker than ever. She ran as fast as she could along the trees, jumping over fallen logs and hacking through overhanging branches. Her legs screamed in protest as she pushed herself, faster and faster; her shoulder ached with every swing of her sword. It was the fastest she'd ever run in her life, but she knew she'd have to do better: Yards ahead, she could hear Quinn crashing through the undergrowth.

"Mike!" she yelled desperately, holding Barbra up as she ran. "Matt! Artie! I need reinforcements! Quinn has the flag!"

Quinn must have heard her. A bolt of lightning crackled out of the sky, and Rachel flung herself out of the way as it incinerated the tree right in front of her. She hurled herself back on Quinn's trail, trying to make up the distance as the sound of snapping twigs grew fainter.

"Keep her busy!" Artie’s voice rang from Barbra's beak. "We're fighting off the defenders, but Mike has _their_ flag!"

Rachel's hopes rose at the news. It wasn't just her race now. All she had to do was slow Quinn down so Mike could cross the creek first -

The faint gurgle of water broke through her thoughts. The creek - they were already near the creek! Up ahead, she could see the red plume of Quinn's helmet bobbing in the dark. The blonde was slowing; Rachel guessed it was the drain of calling down lightning. She put on another spurt of speed, willing her legs to go faster.

They burst out of the trees at the same time, stumbling on the stones of the bank. Beyond the water, Mike flew over the treetops, red banner in hand, the wings on his sneakers flapping frantically. He dodged arrow after arrow as he raced for the boundary line.

Rachel dropped her sword, reaching a desperate hand out, her fingers closing around the hem of Quinn's shirt as they ran into the creek. Quinn thrashed against her grip, and for a split second Rachel believed they'd won. Then Quinn raised her hand, and one last bolt of electricity split the sky, scorching the air right in front of Mike.

He swerved, but it was enough. Quinn tore free of Rachel's hold and raced to shore, collapsing on the bank and slapping the drenched and battered flag of Athena triumphantly down on the ground. The conch horn blew as the flag changed color, the silver giving way to blue. The barn owl and the olive tree were replaced by an eagle and a lightning bolt.

Rachel thought it was a particularly insulting choice of symbol, that lightning bolt. She scowled as she hauled herself out of the water. Her knees gave way and she rolled onto her back, clutching at the stitch in her side.

"Did you - really think - you could - catch me?" Quinn wheezed from somewhere nearby.

"Doesn't - hurt to - try," Rachel gasped back.

From the corner of her eye she could see Mike land on the bank. Red and blue team members alike were making their way to them. Naturally the reds were cheering, chanting Quinn's name. Scowl still firmly in place, Rachel forced herself to sit up; she would at least lose with some dignity.

"Sloppy as usual, Q," Coach Sylvester said, pushing her way through the crowd. Quinn grinned back though; everyone knew that was high praise coming from Sue Sylvester.

Rachel scanned the sea of surrounding faces. Amidst the horde of blue-plumed helmets she could make out Kurt, the sleeves of his jacket smoking, and Mercedes, her hot pink shield looking equally scorched.

Just crossing the water was Finn, sporting _two_ shiners and a bruised jaw. He waved, and Rachel was proud to see that he was followed by a disgruntled Santana, who had several cuts on her face and a large splotch of purple on her cheekbone. Cooing over the girl's bruised knuckles was Brittany; Rachel felt a surge of guilt when the blonde smiled at her, having seemingly forgotten that Rachel had given her the cut on her lip.

"Good game, everyone," Mr. Schue said as the cheers died down. Santana snorted, and Quinn gave her a cheeky little wink as she sat up.

"All injured campers, find a nymph and gorge on ambrosia or nectar immediately," Coach Sylvester announced. She pointed at Finn. "Especially you, Hudson. You look like the product of a misguided sexual encounter between a raccoon and a bottle of human growth hormone."

"More serious injuries, if any - report to Terri at the Big House," Mr. Schue added. "The rest of you, back to your cabins for lights out."

A million conversations broke out as campers began to disperse. Brittany and Santana came to get Quinn, who ended up stopping Santana from “accidentally” kicking Rachel’s teeth in. Rachel herself was surprised to get a thump on the back from Mike as he helped her up. Apparently losing the game wasn't the end of the world, because he just laughed when she asked him if she'd failed. He was about to regale her with _his_ "failure of the night" when a desperate wail pierced through the babble.

The crowd fell silent.

Jesse St. James stumbled out of the trees, broken bow in hand. He was half-dragging another camper, the boy's limp arm slung over his shoulders. Campers drew back as he made his way forward, struggling under the weight.

He collapsed right at Coach Sylvester's feet, wheezing. "Found him - at base - Zeus' Fist - "

Murmurs broke out among the campers. Rachel glanced at Quinn, who stood with Brittany and Santana nearby, but the three of them looked as confused as she was.

"It was their base," Mike said quietly, watching as Mr. Schue knelt down beside the two boys. "Clump of rocks, natural landmark. Their flag was there, but I don't understand; everyone should've gone here once the horn blew."

The satyr reached over and helped Jesse sit up. The other boy lay face down on the ground. Mr Schue moved to help him too, but Jesse shook his head.

"No, you can't - not here - he's - " Jesse looked helplessly up at Coach Sylvester, who stared back at him, brows furrowed.

She nodded at Mr. Schuester. Jesse shouted in protest, but she clamped a hand on his shoulder as the satyr turned the other boy onto his back.

Rachel inhaled sharply. Gasps rang out among the crowd, and she felt Mike freeze beside her. Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester stood stricken, gazing down at the boy sprawled motionless on the ground.

Staring back at them, eyes wide and unseeing, was Matt Rutherford.


	8. Four Maimings And A Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (Please copy-paste to rot13.com to read) Nsgrezngu bs punenpgre qrngu Q:

It was quiet in the Hermes cabin.

They all sat huddled in a corner, not daring to make a sound as their head counselor went through Matt’s things, rooting through the wooden chest that had once been his best friend’s. Baseball cards littered the floor; jackets and shirts were strewn all over Matt’s sleeping bag. Mike kept flinging more and more items out of the trunk, cursing under his breath. No one knew what he was looking for; no one had the heart to stop him.

Rachel hugged her knees to her chest and tried to look elsewhere. It felt wrong, watching their leader fall apart like that, so consumed by a grief that was at once both personal and remote. It was the same grief she saw in Finn, sitting beside her and staring off into some unknown space, one that she supposed Matt must have left empty.

She swallowed, casting her eyes around the room. There was no space for her to stare at, no sudden hole she could yearn to fill. Numbness sat heavy in her limbs, the weight of shock squeezed the air from her lungs, but there was no overwhelming emptiness there to crush her. She knew her short time at camp had saved her, but sitting in that crowded room of casualties, Rachel found herself wishing it hadn’t.

“We should be making the shroud,” Finn said suddenly. He looked around, the faint remains of his bruises making his gaze look more hollow than it already was. “The burial shroud. We need to honor him.”

The whole cabin stirred at his words. Several Hermes campers lifted their heads, turning to look at Mike. He stayed kneeling, head bowed and shoulders slumped, but there were no more curses breaking through the silence. Their head counselor had gone absolutely still.

“We should be making the shroud,” Finn repeated, his voice growing stronger with every word. He fixed pleading eyes on Mike. “We can’t just put it off forever. I know we’re all hung up on how it - how it even  _happened_  - “

His voice broke, and he clenched his fists. For a moment the whole cabin seemed to be holding its breath. Then Finn straightened up, and when he spoke his voice was the steadiest it had been all night. “But we can’t make that stop us from giving him the send-off he deserves.”

“We won’t,” Mike said abruptly. He kept his head down, but Rachel could see him square his shoulders as he said, unnervingly calm, “Cabin Eleven, fall in.”

Slowly, uncertainly, they all got to their feet. Rachel joined the line, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze. Her stomach churned at the thought of standing with her cabinmates at whatever ceremony they were bound to hold for Matt. Finn’s hand, vise-like on her shoulder, offered little comfort.

“Head to the amphitheater,” Mike said tonelessly, jarring her out of her thoughts. “We’re having the pyre tonight.”

“What about the shroud?” Finn demanded. Rachel fidgeted uncomfortably as he glanced at her for support. “We haven’t made one - “

“We don’t have to,” Mike interrupted as he rose to his feet. He held up a green-and-white silk burial cloth, rumpled from having been stuffed in the bottom of a trunk. Embroidered on the front was a silver caduceus.

“I made this when he went on his first quest. When he came back, he stole it before we could burn it.” He looked at the shroud and shook his head. “Said he couldn’t risk the next one being ugly.”

Rachel watched as Mike gathered up the cloth with trembling hands. She eased Finn’s hand off her shoulder and took a tentative step forward. It was true that she knew very little of Matt, but hearing Mike recount such characteristic words -- for one brief moment, what little she did know felt like enough.

She cleared her throat. “He was right, you know. That shroud is beautiful.”

She still felt out of place, marching with the Hermes campers to the amphitheater. But Mike had smiled at her, a fleeting quirk at the corner of his mouth before he set off for the Big House - and while she didn’t quite make the deadline for being Matt’s friend, she figured that small gesture was enough assurance that she could stand with those who did.

*  
The campfire burned black that night.

Flames rose up from the firepit, a dark barrier separating the Hermes cabin from the rest of the camp. Rachel peered over the top of the fire, trying to make out faces among the other cabins assembled in the shadows. A faint warmth welled up within her at the sea of bandages and pajamas before her. It had taken one blow of the conch horn, and bleary-eyed campers had streamed into the amphitheater with no protest whatsoever.

Her eyes fell on Brittany and Santana, sitting off to the side and whispering to each other. Right beside them, lips pursed and chin propped up in hand, sat Quinn. She met Rachel’s gaze, but before Rachel could even figure out if it was appropriate to wave or not, Quinn had quirked an eyebrow and turned away.

In fact,  _everyone_  had turned away, watching as Coach Sylvester led the satyrs and nymphs down the aisles. At the very end of the line walked Mr. Schue, Mike, and two others; balanced on their shoulders was a wooden bier. A lump formed in Rachel’s throat at the sight of the body atop it, wrapped in a familiar green-and-white shroud. 

All eyes turned back to the fire as the newcomers took their seats in silence. Coach Sylvester helped set the bier down, her expression unreadable.

“Tonight we’ve lost a valuable camper,” Mr. Schue said, clasping his hands together as he turned to address them all. “We lost him when we least expected it, and in a place where we long believed we couldn’t lose anyone.”

Coach Sylvester frowned as Mr. Schue continued, “I know it’s come as a shock, and even being here is hard, but I’m asking all of you now to set that aside, and look for that little point of joy in your hearts as we all say good-bye.”

He beckoned Mike forward. Rachel half-expected him to follow up with another speech, but Mike simply looked at all of them and declared, “The first time around, he didn’t want to burn this shroud.”

He took a piece of wood from the fire, the end smoldering with black flame, and placed it on the bier. Fire spread along the shroud. Rachel watched in awe as the cloth and the body wrapped in it dissolved into golden smoke, rising up into the sky. Mike bowed his head, and everyone followed suit. It was silent in the amphitheater as they all took in the warm glow of Matt’s final campfire.

“Something’s coming.”

Rachel’s head snapped up. From the corner of her eye she could see Coach Sylvester and Mr. Schue exchange worried glances. They turned towards the crowd. Staring back at them, a solitary figure standing in a sea of confusion, was Quinn.

“This is making me sound  _completely_  insane,” Quinn said loudly, “but I can hear it in my head. Something’s coming.” She stared steadily at Coach Sylvester. “And it just got past our borders.”

Coach Sylvester narrowed her eyes. For a few brief seconds the amphitheater sucked in its collective breath, waiting for her to scoff and deliver the inevitable verbal lashing. Instead she lifted a whistle to her lips, and with one shrill blast, pandemonium fell upon them all.

Campers ran left and right, scrambling for weapons and shouting for shields. The Apollo kids whipped bows and arrows out from under their seats; Rachel glimpsed Jesse taking off for the cabins, cursing loudly about forgetting his quiver. Finn tugged on her arm, half-dragging her over to the heap of swords that had materialized by the fire.

“But what  _is_  it?” Rachel yelled above the noise, her fingers slipping as she tried to secure the straps of her armor. “What are we fighting?”

Finn shook his head and thrust a helmet at her. She slipped it on, but the bronze did little to block the sound that had filled the amphitheater. Rachel's blood ran cold. High above them, black wings beat in a familiar rhythm. An endless stretch of birds had blocked out the sky.

The campfire burst into frenzied purple flames. Beady red eyes regarded the mess of campers far below, and with a single loud cry, the birds attacked.

A wave of black flew towards the Hermes campers. Rachel dove behind the fire pit, narrowly missing a beak to the arm. Close by, she heard Finn cry out in pain. Before she could even get her bearings, another bird tore into her leg, drawing blood. Rachel clubbed it over the head with the flat of her blade. It fell to the ground, beak glinting in the firelight. 

The _cursed_  things had  _beaks of bronze._

She scrambled to her feet, crouching low. All around her, campers fought off hordes of tearing, clawing birds. More were darting through the air, beaks ready to tear off any skin that presented an easy target. A whirling mass hurled itself at Rachel. She swung wildly, cutting a swath of air clear, then another, trying to ignore the sting of beak after beak digging into her arms.

Golden dust rained down on her as she slashed through the last cloud of feathers. With a start, she realized - the birds were  _dissolving_ , just like Suzy Pepper. All hope she had of the attack being made by a passing flock of rabid birds fell away completely. These were monsters, and the camp borders hadn't kept them out.

She froze, grappling with the information - which, in a place that had quickly turned into an aviary of doom, was not a good idea. Someone came crashing into her, sending Rachel sprawling to the ground.

"Whoever you are, I swear to Zeus - "

"Quinn?" Rachel staggered to her feet, pressing a hand to her helmet. She cast around for her sword, but it was no use. The world had turned into a nauseating blur.

A hand clamped down on her wrist, and Rachel found herself being spun around. She heard loud squawks and an explosion of dust behind her. Quinn's face swam into view. "Of course it's me, Manhands; it's not like you've found other lives to ruin."

Before she could even begin to form an answer, Quinn pushed her aside. A flock of birds swooped for them, their beaks barely missing the already-torn-up flesh of Rachel's limbs. She could only stare as Quinn expertly cut them down, swinging a silver blade that looked like the deadlier lovechild of a scythe and a sword.

"Do you always need this much saving?" Quinn asked, taking hold of Rachel's wrist again and pulling her away from a camper flailing around with a spear. A few feet in front of them, Mike took to the air, swinging a torch and setting a whole mass of birds on fire.

"There wouldn’t be any saving necessary if you hadn't  _disarmed me_ _,"_ Rachel hissed, slapping Quinn's arm with her free hand to prove her point.

"And you wouldn't have gotten disarmed if you weren't  _standing around like an idiot,"_ Quinn shot back. They swerved around Puck, who was stabbing birds out of the air with a disturbing sort of glee, and ducked behind one of the stone benches.

"Stay here," Quinn said, pushing Rachel down as more birds flew overhead. She started to follow them, back to the center of the fight, but Rachel held her back.

"I refuse to sit this out while the rest of camp is out there being ripped to pieces," Rachel said matter-of-factly. She folded her arms and glared. “You’re not the only one who can fight, you know.”

It came as no surprise to her that Quinn glared right back. "What are you going to do, sing them to death?"

"I - " Rachel looked around, hoping to stumble upon someone's discarded weapon. Naturally, there was nothing there but dirt - but as she stared at it, yells and squawks and flapping wings ringing in her ears, she  _knew_  what she had to do.

She closed her eyes, willing the sounds of panicked battle to fall away. She thought of the amphitheater shifting, fading into nothing. In her head there were only dusty aisles, empty seats, the heat of a blazing spotlight. Straightening up, she heard the faintest whisper -  _"Won't you sing, little half-blood?"_

She smiled, the first straining notes of her fathers' favorite song already washing everything away.  _Of course she would._

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of night._ She walked slowly past the bench, past a disbelieving Quinn, past rank upon rank of birds that hovered, their beaks and claws perfectly still.

 _Take these broken wings and learn to fly._  Campers were setting down their weapons, parting to make way for her as her feet took her, almost of their own accord, to the blazing campfire. She caught a glimpse of Mr. Schue staring at her, open-mouthed - and then the birds came swooping before her, wheeling and turning in a column of darkness that reached up to the sky.

She stretched her hands out, felt a tug just behind her navel as she sang,  _All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise._  The campfire roared to life, blazing orange, then red, then gold - the flames climbing higher and higher, a pillar of blinding fire that surged past the treetops and into the clouds.

She pressed on, a numbing cold spreading in her chest, creeping further and further with every lyric. Bird and fire wound around each other, twisting in a dance that painted the air in streaks of light and shadow. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Quinn pushing her way through the crowd, hand pressed to her ear and brows furrowed like she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

 _Blackbird fly, blackbird fly._  Rachel spread her arms, pushing everything she had into the words. _Into the light of the dark black night._

For one tantalizing second, the column of birds grew absolutely still. They hovered in the air, their beady red eyes unblinking - and then, with one loud squawk of compliance, they dove headfirst into the flames. Fire roared up to consume them, curling around them in a blazing arc, devouring claw and beak and flapping wing.

Rachel swayed, clutching at her chest with cold fingers, watching as the flame collapsed in on itself, tendrils slipping back until there was nothing left above them but a blinding ball of fire. It descended slowly, shrinking as it went, and it took Rachel her last few dregs of energy to look up as it settled right above her - a tiny, golden sun.

It was silent in the amphitheater. Rachel struggled to stay on her feet, looking around to find someone who might help her. None of the campers stepped forward. She stared at them - confused, imploring - even as their ashen faces started to blur.

Finally Coach Sylvester pushed her way to the front, her eyes fixed on the symbol still burning above Rachel's head. Her voice shook as she declared, "It is determined."

One by one campers dropped to their knees. Rachel tried to ask them  _why,_  but she strained to even open her mouth, and her mind kept losing its grip on the words. She saw Coach Sylvester herself kneel, the image slipping like a distant memory through her brain. She squinted, trying to make sense of it all.

"Hail, Lord Apollo," Coach Sylvester announced, her voice muffled like a transmission through water. "Far-Shooting, All-Seeing, Voice of Olympus and Bringer of Light."

Rachel looked out over the crowd, searching for something,  _anything_  her floundering mind could hold onto. An incredible weight settled on her shoulders; she felt her knees start to buckle. All around her the world began to fade.

"And hail, Rachel Berry, daughter of the Sun."

Campers rose to their feet, a wave of movement that made her head spin. The crowd melted into a sea of unknown faces, and Rachel felt the little hope within her waver. Then she found Quinn, hazel eyes sharp and clear through the haze, fighting her way through the crowd. 

She skidded to a halt by the fire, hair golden in the flickering light, expression as unreadable as ever. Rachel smiled, gratitude and relief washing over her, carrying her tired mind away - then her eyes fluttered shut and she fell forward, straight into waiting arms.


	9. The Perks Of Being A Demigod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi-crossover AU? The Gleeks take over the world of Percy Jackson. Monsters, magic, and glee club, oh my.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaps of thank you's to the most wonderful beta in the world, [madndizzee](http://madndizzee.livejournal.com), who is now in possession of a magical dragon shield and remains totally awesome. :P

She washed ashore on the island of irredeemable psychiatric cases.

Granted it was an island that looked suspiciously like a large bedroom, but the soft bed and warm blankets couldn't fool her. The moment she woke up, head sore and arms stiff, she knew they'd put her in a mental institution. There was no other way to explain the obvious hallucination that was Bambi smiling down at her.

"I'm glad you're awake," Bambi chirped.

Rachel frowned. She never thought she'd be the type of person to imagine talking animals. She also thought she’d be the type to retain the tiniest details even in delirium, but judging from the red hair and decidedly human face Bambi was sporting, she was wrong on that count too.

“Terri wanted to kill you,” the illusion went on, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Rachel vaguely wondered what kind of subconscious she must have, if she was talking to erroneous Disney replicas about murder. “She said it was better to put you out of your misery, but really, we just needed to fix you up a little.”

Not-Bambi smiled and pulled the blankets back. Bandages covered Rachel's arms, stark white and razor-straight, like every wrap had been measured with a ruler. It made her feel like a meticulously prepared mummy.

Wide eyes watched her expectantly. "You've, ah, you've been unconscious for the past hour. Maybe you could try sitting up?"

Rachel nodded and propped herself up, wincing as her forearms sunk into the mattress. Not-Bambi offered her a bowl of what looked to be some kind of pudding, even going so far as to lift a spoonful to her mouth. Rachel frowned again; as far as she knew, deer had hooves, not hands.

"Eat up, go on."

Rachel shrugged and gulped down the food. It was an explosion of taste on her tongue - vegan strawberry ice cream, freshly made popcorn, a thousand other things that were  _definitely_  not just pudding. Warmth spread through her, sending her fingers tingling.

"Thank - thank you," she said, surprised that talking was nowhere near as difficult as it had been at the campfire. She swallowed another spoonful; strength surged through her limbs.

"Emma," the nymph - Rachel could see that clearly now - said brightly. "Call me Emma." She held up some more pudding. "It's ambrosia, food of the gods. You'll need another bite, I think, you were almost - you were dying when you got here. Actually, it was kind of, um, it was kind of a miracle that you didn't."

"Oh." Rachel fiddled with the heap of blankets on her lap. She hadn't  _felt_ like she was dying, those last few seconds at the amphitheater - although, in retrospect, she figured she must have  _looked_  it.

"Quinn said you sang very beautifully, though," Emma pressed on, smiling kindly when Rachel's head snapped up. "At the - at the campfire. But I guess that's natural, given your parent."

"Thank you," Rachel said, straightening up and beaming. "I've had years of extensive - excuse me, what?"

In the thirteen years of praise she'd so far received for her voice, Rachel Berry had heard her talent attributed to many things: the luck of genetics, her rigorous training program, in one instance even her daily protein shake. But the one thing she'd never heard was anyone directly ascribing it to  _someone else._  The very notion seemed to sweep her almost completely out of the equation.

She stared at Emma, hoping she'd misheard and fearing she hadn't. The nymph blinked at her.

"Hasn't Will told you? Apollo's children are all very gifted singers," Emma said, every word hitting Rachel like a punch in the gut. "That's why Will's always had his suspicions about you - he, ah, mentioned how hard it was to keep you hidden at McKinley. You were part of the glee club, right?"

Rachel nodded numbly. The warmth of ambrosia deserted her. She sat there, stomach churning and throat dry, the one stone she'd built herself up on crumbling beneath her. Emma's voice rang in her ears, and even as she tried to block it out, a thought wormed its way in, harsh and unwelcome: She was a vessel, one in a line of many others, filled with a talent that was anything but her own.

Emma clapped her hands.

"Well, I think you can start one right here. You've got a whole cabin of wonderful voices raring for another creative outlet." She paused, the air thick with an expectation that all but forced Rachel to look back up.

Emma smiled. "It would make your father very proud, seeing you make use of the talents you got from him."

It felt like a robbery. She'd been claimed, and true enough that blazing sun had come and branded everything as its own. Rachel hung her head and stared at her bandaged fingers, wondering why Finn - why  _anyone_  - would ever hope for something like this to happen. She wondered if that was why Quinn was so angry - if it wasn't a lonesome table after all, but hearing everything she'd ever done and everything she'd ever been reduced to a simple statement: "Oh, because you're the daughter of Zeus."

"E-Emma," she said, waiting for her voice to somehow betray her. "May I - may I have a glass of water, please?"

She heard the nymph get up, heard her pause for a moment by the door.

"You know," Emma said thoughtfully, "I'll never understand why Will ever hoped you'd be someone else's daughter. One song from you and it would've been obvious. I mean, well, it was, but - he put you through all those other activities hoping it wouldn't be Apollo."

Rachel spread her hands, not daring to look up as Emma left the room. For all of Mr. Schue's hopes she'd still turned out to be a daughter of Apollo - and even as she sat there, trying to recall the same Broadway dreams and the songs she'd planned to sing, it didn't feel as though she would ever be anything else.

*

"The strength of your camp falters."

Rachel lurched upright, scanning the darkened infirmary. Empty beds and closed doors told her she'd woken after curfew - and in a very deserted room. She turned to the jug of water on her bedside table, debating whether or not to pour herself a glass. Maybe she was finally hallucinating.

Then she heard it - a laugh, slow and gentle, as if from someone half-asleep. Rachel froze, heart hammering in her throat. A wall of earth had passed through the wall, crawling towards her, breaking apart and reassembling as it tumbled straight through the furniture. It stopped at the foot of her bed. She scrambled back as the dirt churned, twisting itself into a dark-robed woman that she knew all too well.

"The only safe place, they say," the woman murmured. The dust veil over her face parted, revealing the same lazy, knowing smile. "But the gods themselves have already begun to challenge that notion."

A chill ran down Rachel's spine as she remembered Finn's words from her first day. She straightened up, her back pressing against the headboard. She could still feel the sting of bronze beaks digging into her flesh, could still see Matt sprawled lifeless on the ground. "It was - it was them? Everything that's happened - those birds, and Matt's death, they're responsible?"

"Voices are not the only things parents can give."

Rachel flinched. She wanted it to be a lie, all of it, but as she stared at the churning earth before her she knew, somehow, that it wasn't. The floorboards shook as the woman laughed, louder this time, like the rumbling of a volcano threatening to burst. "I see you have your father's knack for truth. Then hear this, demigod: The gods are faithless."

She stretched her hand out to Rachel, her skin a white stain blooming from the shifting folds of her sleeve. Tendrils of earth crept up her palm, fusing together to form the familiar angles of a lightning bolt. "But so are their children."

*  
Coach Sylvester barged in early the next morning. She marched straight to Rachel's bedside, her usual contemptuous sneer in place. Rachel half-expected an angry interrogation about her dream, but before she could work out  _how_  that could even happen, the coach had broached a subject that was quite possibly worse.

"Your things will be moved to Cabin Seven today."

Rachel felt her stomach flip. The mere thought of leaving the Hermes cabin made her queasy. It would be her first day at camp all over again - except with Jesse St. James for a head counselor, and not even her singing to hold onto. It would make everything completely inescapable.

"I - I can't move them yet," she said quickly, holding up her bandaged arms.

Coach Sylvester raised an eyebrow. "Hudson has volunteered to do it, since he seems to agree with you that being a lazy invalid is a legitimate excuse for avoiding manual labor."

Guilt hit Rachel like a punch to the gut. She hadn't even thought about how Finn might react to her claiming, and there he was, carting her things off to the one cabin that had given him the most grief. Whatever his reasons, she doubted his charitable mood would last long. It was one thing to be nice to someone who wasn't there, staying friends with someone who took less than a week to get what he spent his whole life waiting for, well, that was something different altogether.

Rachel clutched at her blanket, wishing it had some kind of built-in life-reset button.

"Coach Sylvester," a familiar voice said, from somewhere by the door. The mere sound of it sent Rachel reeling. She whipped around, pulse racing. Of all the loops the morning's emotional rollercoaster had taken, this was probably the worst.

"The other head counselors are waiting in the game room," Quinn went on. Her eyes flicked to Rachel for a moment, clouding over with something that might have been concern.

A flurry of panicked thoughts flew through Rachel's mind. Did Quinn somehow know about her dream? She didn't know  _how_ , but she couldn't think of any other reason why Quinn would be worried either. It wasn't like she cared about Rachel, unexpected rescues notwithstanding. If she was the traitor the dream said she was, though -  _obviously_  someone knowing the truth about her would be a cause for concern.

Coach Sylvester cleared her throat and made for the door. Rachel watched helplessly as she and Quinn headed down the hall. She couldn't tell the directors, not yet, but what few pieces she had certainly fit - whatever Quinn was planning, she was in the perfect position to carry it out: Head counselor, trusted enough to know about the most important issues in camp. But why would she even want to do anything that could change that?

Rachel scrambled out of bed, realization hitting her like a brick to the head. The bus ride to camp, her first dinner, her talk with Emma, the hazy memory of a sword pressed to her throat - she didn't know what Quinn was up to, and she certainly needed something more than dreams to go on, but as she snuck down the hall, Rachel was sure - she wasn't the first person to be crushed by the symbol of a father she'd never known.  
*  
The shouting led her straight to the game room.

Rachel ducked behind one of the marble statues scattered along the corridor. Through the open door, she glimpsed Mike banging his fist on the table as he yelled, "Oh, of  _course_  Matt's pyre was a distraction so we could break into your stupid cabin!"

"Well, I don't see anyone else descended from the god of  _thieves!"_  A blond boy she recognized as the Athena head counselor yelled back.

A whistle rang out, and both boys immediately fell silent. Coach Sylvester looked around, ignoring the glares flying across the room as she stared all of them down; Rachel flattened herself against the marble when the coach glanced at the doorway.

"I didn't call this meeting to play spectator to a discussion that is as deafening as it is insignificant," Coach Sylvester growled, putting a hand up when the Athena counselor started to protest. "This camp isn't affected by the loss of inaccurate blueprints and pointless research into a maze that no one can navigate. No," she narrowed her eyes, "the only thing I want any of you talking about, is last night's campfire."

Several counselors exchanged glances. Rachel could see Artie, his back to the door, drumming his fingers nervously on his armrest. Mr. Schue bleated loudly. Kurt looked up from his compact mirror, eyes wide.

"Q!" Coach Sylvester barked. "What did the birds want?"

Quinn shifted in her seat. "I don't know. Just that someone sent them." She crossed her arms. "I didn't exactly have the time to stop and chat."

Coach Sylvester frowned. Rachel's stomach did a little lurch at the words. Whatever proof she did or didn't have, she knew for a fact that Quinn had just lied.

"Hold up, you can talk to birds?" Artie said.

"Duh. Her dad's the god of the sky, genius," Santana said, rolling her eyes. "What do you think she talks to, planes?"

"She helped me make friends with the ducks," Brittany added brightly.

"And now she's helping all of you get killed," Coach Sylvester said, gazing evenly at Quinn. "Starting with Matt Rutherford."

The whole room froze. Rachel clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling her gasp. Quinn leapt out of her seat, face pale and eyes blazing.

" _O Zeu ka alloi theoi!_  Why the hell would I kill Matt?!"

Coach Sylvester leaned back and wagged a reproving finger at her. "You're asking the wrong question, Q. What you  _should_  be asking is, when the god who brings death has vanished, how did Matt even manage to die?"

The head counselors broke into uproar.

"You mean Thanatos? That's him, right?"

"Wait, wait, wait - no one's  _dying?"_

"That's impossible! Gods can't just  _vanish!"_

"Can we please,  _please_  rewind to the part of this meeting that has the explanations?" Kurt said, pressing a hand to his temple.

One short blast on Coach Sylvester's whistle cut through the noise. She leaned forward, watching over steepled fingers as the counselors lapsed into silence. Rachel waited with bated breath, her fingers pressing so hard into the marble she wouldn't have been surprised if they fused with it.

"Let me break this down for you," Coach Sylvester said quietly, spreading her hands on the table. "Thanatos is missing, and the lack of new souls is making itself felt in the Underworld."

Several campers started to say something, and the coach blew on her whistle again.

"He's threatening war now, but if this isn't resolved, slowly and surely Hades is going to fade." She glared at Jesse, who'd opened his mouth to speak. "And while everyone and their mother has a problem with death, there are only two gods with the balls to do something about it, and the power to match."

Coach Sylvester turned to Quinn, who stood stock-still, pale as a ghost. "Unfortunately for you, direct interference in each other's affairs is against the Ancient Laws."

"And Poseidon has no children," Artie said slowly, awestruck. "The only suspect left is Quinn."

Rachel slumped back against the marble, trying desperately to process everything she'd heard. She'd expected Quinn's plan - whatever it was - to be something bad, but she hadn't expected it to be  _that_  bad. The sheer enormity of it overwhelmed her. She didn't need to be a veteran camper to know what a Big Three feud meant; suddenly, a campfire attack seemed all too trivial.

"Let's all pretend this isn't some half-baked conspiracy theory for a minute," Quinn finally said, her voice thin and faint even in the silence.

Rachel peered out from behind the statue. Quinn drew herself up, taking a deep breath and clenching her fists. When she spoke again, her voice shook with barely-controlled anger. "Why would  _anyone_  even be crazy enough to destroy the Underworld?"

"You're the megalomaniac kidnapper here," Santana drawled, rolling her eyes at the glare Quinn sent her way. "You tell us."

"A shift in power," Mr. Schue put in, stepping forward. "It's not so much the Underworld being destroyed as it is Hades. That leaves a huge domain ripe for a takeover."

 _Or it could be a war,_ Rachel thought. Mr. Schue had a point, but Coach Sylvester had said Hades' fading would be slow. In the meantime, he was free to direct all of his diminishing power against his brother - and Rachel had heard enough about Zeus to know that he would have no qualms about hitting back. Fear shot through her at the thought. Zeus' authority would crumble. Soon it would be a full-blown Olympian civil war, and they would all be caught in the crossfire.

"So now I'm helping someone I've never even met take over another god's job?" Quinn said fiercely.

Rachel waited for the small flip of her stomach, the one sign that would tell her that Quinn's incredulity was a front, that it wasn't war but a takeover after all. She waited in vain.

"This is insane!" Quinn spat, glaring at her fellow counselors. They stared back, too stunned to speak. Mike gripped the edge of the table, his jaw set and his knuckles white with strain. "I've never even met my father! And all of a sudden I'm kidnapping gods and - and killing campers  _for him?"_

"The answer doesn't matter," Coach Sylvester snapped. She got to her feet, bringing her hand down hard on the table. "This is no longer a question of motive or alibi. Hades has openly accused Zeus of using  _you_  to usurp him, and Matt Rutherford was the first death since Thanatos' disappearance."

She looked steadily at Quinn. "If Hades wasn't sure when he sent that Fury after you, he is now."

"He let those birds in," Kurt said incredulously.

"Exactly." Coach Sylvester said. "And I, for one, will not have the camp budget funnelled into otherwise-unnecessary medical supplies simply because Hades suspects my campers of being more competent than they actually are."

She straightened up; even from her hiding place, Rachel could see the glint in her eye as she turned to Quinn. "In fact, I am  _demanding_  a quest so that you can demonstrate the full extent of your ineptitude."

Rachel gasped. It was like the floor had fallen out from under her. She heard the other counselors murmur in agreement, and her blood ran cold. Of all the people to send on the quest, they'd gone for the worst possible option. For a moment she considered bursting in and slapping sense into everyone, but Mr. Schue banished the thought from her mind with one scandalized bleat.

 _"Baa-hahaa!_  Sue, you can't send her out there!"

The satyr frowned at Coach Sylvester. Rachel nodded vehemently. He might not know she was there, but she felt the moral support was necessary.  _Someone_  had to be sensible in that room.

Then Mr. Schue spoke again, and Rachel was sure it wouldn't be him. "She'll get ripped to pieces!"

The counselors fell silent, fixing anxious eyes on Quinn. Rachel didn't know if they were silently pleading for her to leave or to stay; all she knew was that they  _were_  pleading. Quinn stared back at them, the storm in her hazel eyes simmering down, leaving her gaze blank.

"No, I'll do it." She turned to look at Mr. Schue, giving him the soft, resigned smile of a girl condemned. "I'm not exactly safe here either, Mr. Schue."

"The Oracle, then," Coach Sylvester put in. "Assuming it doesn't turn you into a blubbering mess, we'll talk about what to do next."

Quinn nodded and stepped out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind her. Rachel pressed herself up behind the statue, blood rushing in her ears. She waited for Quinn to disappear up the stairs, straightening up the moment she heard the last fading footstep.

Her stomach churned as she made her way back to the infirmary. Emma greeted her at the door, gloved hands pressed to her hips. She prattled on about germs, infections, and the pitfalls of sneaking out while injured, but Rachel couldn't bring herself to listen.

It was done, the quest was given - and no matter what she said, she couldn't convince anyone to rule otherwise. She stared down at her bed, the immaculate sheets blinding white in the sunlight - and in her mind, there dawned a crazy idea.

  



	10. A Walk In The Park

The sprint to the Apollo cabin was excruciating.

She wished Emma had given her more ambrosia, but apparently being released from the infirmary meant relinquishing her god-food privileges as well. If only the same applied to Emma's sermons on Apollo. Rachel had had to endure a long-winded speech on her father's powers as god of medicine before she could finally leave the Big House.

She stumbled onto Cabin Seven's doorstep, wheezing and clutching at the stitch in her side. No one came to the door. She breathed a sigh of relief. The Apollo campers were probably busy with morning classes - which meant there wouldn't be any questions once she went to get her things.

Beams of sunlight fell across the cabin door, making it shine a blinding gold. Rachel scowled as she pushed it open; if she needed one more reason to leave, the obnoxious architecture was probably it. She sidestepped a pile of quivers and slipped inside.

It was what she imagined Juilliard would look like - if it was overrun by trigger-happy elves and a tornado. Arrows peppered the inside of the door. Posters of bands and Broadway musicals covered the walls; the floor was lost under stacks of playbills, sheet music, and manuscripts. Beds had been pushed off to either side, flanked by an assortment of music stands. Instruments - lyres, flutes, reed pipes, guitars - lay heaped amongst the pillows.

The whole room was bathed in sunlight. Rachel looked up. The ceiling was covered in a mosaic of the sky, enchanted to reflect the actual thing. White-tile clouds drifted lazily across it, sometimes passing in front of a small, glowing sun.

Someone coughed. Rachel stiffened. Right across the room, standing in front of a line of archery targets and dartboards, was Finn.

"I thought you weren't getting out of the infirmary yet," he said, looking genuinely confused. He held up a small backpack. "I've got your stuff here, by the way. Just dropping it off."

Rachel stared at him, unsure whether or not to tell him what she was planning. Finn wasn't all that close to Quinn, but who knew what he thought of Rachel now that she'd been claimed? The last thing she needed was him trying to stop her before she could even get out of camp. She opened her mouth, about to spout some nonsense about acclimating herself to her new cabin, but Finn cut her off.

"Look," he said, setting the backpack down, "I know this is really awkward, 'cause you've heard me go on and on about claiming, but I just wanted to say - "

He inhaled sharply, and Rachel steeled herself for the impending outburst. She still remembered Mike's stories about Finn kicking over chairs.

"Congratulations."

"What?"

"Congratulations. It's not your fault you beat me to it." Finn gave her a small smile.

Rachel felt another stab of guilt in her chest. She searched Finn's face, but there was no resentment there - just resignation, as if he'd finally come to believe that the rest of his life would be spent hauling other people's things from one cabin to the other and telling them it was okay.

"Come with me," Rachel blurted out.

She waited nervously as Finn furrowed his brows in confusion. "What? Where?"

Rachel took a deep breath. There was no turning back now. "I've decided to follow Quinn on her quest."

"What quest?" Finn asked. His eyes fell on her bandaged arms. "Are you even allowed to do that? Aren't you, like, hurt or something?" He frowned. "Are you some kind of stalker? 'Cause I know Quinn had one of those once, but - "

"I'm not a stalker!" Rachel cut in, glaring at him for even considering it. "And while I haven't fully recovered yet, my well-being is secondary to the demise of Western civilization."

Finn stared at her blankly.

"Quinn has been given the task of finding the missing god, Thanatos," Rachel went on, picking her way across the room and ignoring his splutter of surprise. "Unfortunately, I happen to know she's the one who kidnapped him in the first place."

"Um, Rach, I know she's, like, always angry and everything, but that doesn't mean she's out to kill everyone." Finn paused. "Actually, I think that's Santana. Are you sure it isn't Santana?"

"Santana doesn't have a father who would be severely inconvenienced by a war," Rachel said flatly. "And that is exactly what Hades is threatening. Think about it, Finn. Quinn's resented her father for who knows how long - this is the  _perfect_ way to get back at him."

"Okay, that sort of makes sense, but - " Finn's frown deepened. "How do you even know about all of this?"

Rachel faltered. She was pretty sure conversations with talking mounds of earth weren't something normally shared with other people. That, and telling Finn about her dreams would probably mean she'd be meeting the end of the world in a straitjacket. It wasn't exactly the best way to die.

Finn watched her expectantly.

"That's not the point," she snapped. "The point is that we're the only ones who can stop Quinn and avert the apocalypse."

She yanked the backpack out of his grip. "The point is that this could be your one chance to get claimed."

Finn froze, and in that moment, Rachel knew the plan was pushing through.

"Remember what Jesse said?" she asked, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "You get claimed when you do something great, something that will make your godly parent sit up and take notice." She looked up at him. "Nobody can ignore you when you've saved the world."

 _And nobody can typecast you either._  Rachel gripped the bag straps tighter. She knew better than to delude herself into believing that this was all one big ploy to help Finn get claimed. He was, first and foremost, a trusty lieutenant; if she was going to succeed, she needed backup. It just so happened that they were out to do the same thing: prove that there was something more to them, that they were special.

"We'll be needing weapons," Finn said. He broke out into a grin and made a beeline for the bow racks. "There'll be lots of monsters out there, we're going to have to be prepared."

"I'm still in Hermes, so, whatever, Jesse can suck it." He handed Rachel a bow, taking another one for himself. "You really think we can do this?"

Rachel paused, strapping the bow over her other shoulder. They were two kids sneaking out of a magical camp to try and take on a vengeful daughter of Zeus who had the power to kidnap a god. Ulterior motives or not, saving the world still felt like a herculean task.

Then again, Hercules was a demigod too.

Rachel grinned. "Of course we can."

They grabbed quivers on the way out.  
*

"Do you think Brittany and Santana are in on this?" Finn huffed as they jogged past the volleyball courts. He waved at some of the campers, trying (and failing) to look nonchalant. "Hey, guys! We're just, ah - "

"New archery exercise!" Rachel supplied, elbowing him in the ribs. She flashed the campers a smile, thankful that none of them seemed to be from Apollo. She really didn't want to be chased down and cursed to speak in rhyme.

"And why," she added, lowering her voice, "would Brittany and Santana even be involved?"

"You take two people with you on a quest," Finn replied. "Who else is Quinn gonna pick, right?"

Rachel skidded to a halt. They hadn't even left the camp and they were already hitting some snags. She rounded on Finn. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier? This severely complicates everything!"

"Well, you were the one who went on about the quest stuff, okay?" he said defensively. "I thought you knew." He looked around before bending closer. "So do you think they're in on it?"

Rachel thought hard, trying to remember every detail from her dreams. She couldn't recall ever seeing Brittany or Santana.

She shook her head and started hiking up the hill. "No, I don't believe they are."

They reached the top just in time to see the camp van racing down the road, carrying either a delivery of completely innocent strawberries or a trio of demigods. Rachel watched as it disappeared around the corner, heading for the city. She hadn't even considered how she was going to actually follow the quest, let alone keep up with it.

Finn cleared his throat. "So, what now?"

Rachel turned to look at him - or, at least, she tried to. Something was creeping around her legs, and after her experience with Capture the Flag, she was pretty sure she knew what it was. Only this time, it wasn't Brittany controlling the grape vines.

"Going somewhere?" Mr. D said, leaning against a poplar. Rachel scowled; apparently leg-lashing was a family habit.

"Mr. D." She clutched at the straps of her backpack. Beside her, Finn whimpered as more vines curled around their legs.

"Indeed. While your antics give me a welcome excuse to be away from my father's tantrums for a while, that doesn't make them any less insulting." His eyes burned purple. "Did you really expect to fool the immortal, all-powerful director of camp?"

"You don't understand," Finn said. "We need to go and stop - "

"Oh, I know perfectly well what you think you need to do," Mr. D said. Rachel glared as he turned his knowing gaze on her. "Do you know what these poplars are, girl?"

"Clearly," Rachel said through gritted teeth, "they're trees."

The grape vines tightened around her legs.

"These are the Heliades, daughters of the Sun. Their grief transformed them into trees, but do you know why they wept?"

Rachel shook her head, and Mr. D sneered. "Their brother Phaeton wanted - no, needed - to prove something. So he begged for the reins of the sun chariot, and the world nearly ended in fire. Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt."

"So the gods don't even hesitate to kill each other's children," Rachel said angrily. She clenched her fists. "Isn't that the reason the world is in danger now? Because you don't care about preserving anything but yourselves?"

The purple fire in Mr. D's eyes burned brighter. "You've missed the point, girl. You heroes are always so burdened by our so-called indifference. Do you think all of your selfish deeds make you any better? Phaeton gave his sisters this fate. Jason abandoned Medea. Heroes would sacrifice the world to get what they want. And yet at the end of the day, it is Zeus who is at fault, hurling that thunderbolt."

He waved his hands, and the vines loosened their hold on Rachel's legs, curling up and retreating into the ground. She stared at him in disbelief.

"Well?" Mr. D said, raising an eyebrow. "They're headed for Central Park."

"You're letting us go?" Finn asked incredulously.

"The quest prophecy says that much will be lost on this journey," Mr. D said, studying them coldly. "I'd rather not have that include my daughter. She may be with that rabid attack dog of a friend, but the more living shields she has, the better."

He snapped his fingers, and his image started folding in on itself. Rachel watched as he grew smaller and smaller, until he was nothing more than a tiny purple point in space. Then the scent of grapes floated in with the wind, and he was gone.

"Hey, there's a cab over there," Finn said. He tugged on her sleeve, pointing out the car coming up the road. "Come on."

Rachel uncurled her fists and nodded. She followed Finn down the hill, trying not to think of the poplar trees she was leaving far behind her.  
*  
The cab driver refused to accept Ancient Greek drachmas.

Rachel spent a good ten minutes trying to convince him that they really were pure gold before Finn discovered Dionysus had left two hundred dollars in her backpack. He was so relieved he'd thrown all of the bills at the cabbie and walked away. Passersby had stared at him; whatever his bow and quiver looked like with the Mist, it must have been strange.

Rachel would've been mad that he'd gone ahead, except she'd managed to convince the driver to give her his beaten-up cellphone. She was about to embark on some dangerous journey she might not return from; potential heart attacks aside, it looked like the best time to give her fathers a ring. She slipped it into her pocket and caught up with Finn.

"Why would they come here?" he said, grabbing a newspaper from a bench as they passed.

They'd spotted the camp van parked on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 67th - although "parked" didn't quite fit. Rachel doubted it was standard parking practice to leave a sign saying "Hands off, bitches" on the windshield, but at least it told them Quinn really had taken Santana (and by extension, Brittany) with her. She could only wonder who'd done the driving.

Finn shook the newspaper open, stretching it out in front of him. "I mean, it's not like Thanatos is out walking his dog or something, right?"

"I don't - " Rachel started, but he pulled her behind the paper. She frowned. "What are you doing?"

"It's a disguise," he answered in a low voice, peering over the top edge. "I saw that Nazi do it in  _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , and Austin Powers did it, so I thought it might work for us." He glanced at her. "You think we should've cut holes in these?"

Rachel stared at him. "No, Finn, I think we're perfectly conspicuous without their help."

"That's good, right?" he said, looking around again. "This is super cool, it's like we're spies."

"Yes, I'm sure the CIA would love to have us."

Rachel lifted the bottom of the page, trying to work out whether or not she was about to crash into a tree. She was about to declare herself perfectly safe when she spotted a familiar group of girls several yards ahead. They were standing at the base of a rock outcropping, looking up at the statue perched on top: a bronze dog. Rachel knew it from all the New York City guides she had at home.

"Balto?"

"Isn't that the sled dog?" Finn said, following her gaze. His eyes widened, and the newspaper shot up in front of his face. "Guess we found them."

"Come on," Rachel hissed, tugging him behind the nearest tree. They inched closer to the statue, Finn taking great pains to keep the newspaper in front of them as they darted from tree trunk to tree trunk.

They stopped right at the tree closest to the outcrop, hiding behind the low-hanging branches. Rachel peeked through the leaves.

Quinn was squinting at the statue, mouthing something Rachel couldn't make out. Right behind her, Brittany stood arm-in-arm with a scowling Santana.

"What are they doing?" Finn whispered, putting the newspaper down. It rustled so loudly, Rachel reached over and slapped him on the arm.

"I thought you'd know," she muttered back, turning away from the branches. A strange tingle ran through her fingers - excitement, anxiety, fear. She'd been hoping they would succeed, but only then - as they crouched just a few feet away from the quest party - did Rachel allow herself to believe it.

She took the cellphone out of her pocket and turned to Finn. "Please, please make sure not to lose sight of them."

He nodded absently, already peering out from behind the tree. Rachel hunched over the phone, punching in her Daddy Leroy's number. She held it up to her ear, a knot forming in her stomach as she waited for him to pick up.

"I think Quinn's trying to wake the dog or something," Finn said, turning to look at her. He stiffened.

"Rach," he said slowly, "what are you doing?"

"Calling my dad," Rachel answered, holding a hand up when she heard the line connect. Hope swelled in her chest as her dad's voice came through the speakers. "Hello? Daddy?"

"Rach,  _no!_ " Finn yelled, snatching the phone up and hurling it away. Rachel rounded on him, outraged - but all of her scathing rebukes died in her throat.

A long howl pierced through the air just as grape vines erupted out of the ground, wrapping around their limbs. The tree branches fell away, and Santana Lopez stood over them, bronze sword in hand and sneer firmly in place.

"Seriously, dwarf? I thought it was the elves that lived in trees."

Rachel tried to stand up, but the vines simply tightened around her. She sighed as Brittany waved at her. She was really starting to get tired of being trussed up with vegetation.

"Eavesdrop much?" Quinn said, coming up behind Santana. Rachel couldn't help but stare - bounding at Quinn's heels, barking like mad, was a brown Siberian Husky that looked eerily similar to Balto. She looked up at the outcrop. Sure enough, the bronze dog was nowhere to be found.

"Wow," Finn said, eyes wide with amazement. "Did you seriously bring Balto's statue to life?"

"Did you seriously tail us all the way from camp?" Quinn retorted, eyeing him coldly. She sighed when the dog nudged Finn's hand with its nose. "He's not Balto or a statue, actually. This is Laelaps, the infallible hound."

"From the myth?" Rachel said. "The same one - "

"Petrified by Zeus," Quinn cut in, grimacing as she said her father's name. "And in case you want to turn everything else into an audiobook - he's destined to catch anything he hunts, we're going to use him to find Thanatos, and we have absolutely no idea what you're doing here." She raised her eyebrow. "Anything else?"

"Rachel used a cellphone," Finn said quickly.

Rachel glared at him. "I fail to see why that's so important."

"So you  _are_  as stupid as you look." Santana snorted. She turned to Quinn. "Next time, Sparky, try not to bring idiots to camp."

She sheathed her sword and brought out a can of pepper spray. Rachel recoiled, but there were no sprays coming. Instead, the can started extending, turning into a familiar bronze spear. Santana hefted it, the tip glowing with red light, and brushed past Rachel.

Quinn brought out her silver flashlight. "Did you end the call?"

"No," Rachel said, scowling at Finn, who at least had the decency to look ashamed. "Although I imagine my dad's hung up now.  _Finn_  took the phone before I could even say anything."

"B, find it," Quinn said urgently. Brittany nodded and set off after Santana. Quinn pressed a hand to her forehead. "Are you really that dumb, Berry? A  _cellphone?"_

"Will anyone please tell me why it matters?" Rachel demanded. She didn't even get to talk to her daddy, and it didn't help to hear everyone talk like she'd committed a crime for even _trying._

"Technology amplifies our scent," Quinn said, pushing the button on her flashlight. It morphed into the silver weapon she'd used at the campfire, and she started cutting through the vines. "So thank you, genius, for basically sending a flare out to all the monsters within a hundred-mile radius."

Rachel stared at her in horror as the words sunk in. She stumbled to her feet, reaching for her bow. It was the first time she'd ever actually held one, considering she'd fled that one archery class at camp, but the feel of it in her hands made for some welcome stability.

It didn't last long.

An inhuman shriek rent the air. Brittany and Santana came sprinting down the path. Right behind them, bat wings flapping frantically, flew three screeching, shriveled hags.

"Furies!" Santana yelled, slamming into Rachel and sending her toppling to the ground. "All three of them!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" Quinn said, whipping around and racing after Santana, Finn and Laelaps right at her heels.

"I thought we killed one!" Rachel cried, scrambling to her feet and stumbling after them. "We killed one! Why is it  _here?!"_

"Fffound youuuu," a Fury hissed triumphantly from somewhere close behind, spitting venom all over Rachel's backpack. She put on a burst of speed, the smell of burning fabric filling her nose. She didn't want to be next.

They ran into the trees, the sound of snapping branches telling them the Furies had followed. Rachel swerved around a tree trunk, keeping her eyes trained on Quinn's bobbing ponytail just up ahead. The whole thing felt like an even more demented version of Capture the Flag.

"Hey! Hey, Quinn!" Finn called, waving his arms in a spot-on impersonation of a running windmill. "Where are we going?"

"She doesn't know," Santana spat fiercely, looking back at them over her shoulder. "Tell them, Q!"

"What do you mean, she doesn't know?" Finn repeated, his voice seeped in horror.

Rachel faltered. They had nowhere to go - and they couldn't keep running forever. Sooner or later, they'd be overrun, and her great plan would probably end in painful eternal torture at the hands of Hades. It was _definitely_  not the best way to die.

"We need the scent of death, okay?" Quinn snapped. "If any of you know how to get that when no one's dying, then feel free to take over."

"I told you, dig up a fucking corpse!" Santana yelled.

They burst out onto the path again. Rachel heard Brittany shriek as the girl ducked a dive-bombing Fury. Just up ahead, Finn dodged a guy on a bike, who screamed and promptly fainted. Whatever the poor mortal had seen, Rachel figured it couldn't have been good.

Laelaps howled as a second Fury came careening out of the sky. It dove straight for Quinn, latching onto her shoulders and sending both of them in a mad tumble to the ground. The others wheeled around, stumbling to a halt, eyes wide. Rachel didn't have the luxury. Before she could even think of stopping, she crashed straight into the flurry of sword and fang.

She landed right on the Fury's back. Sulfur vapor streamed from its scales, and she coughed, swatting wildly as leathery wings slammed into her from either side. Somewhere beneath the flailing mass of monster, Quinn grunted, probably trying to find room to hack her way out.

Another shriek rang out above them. Rachel guessed the third Fury had arrived. She heard Santana call someone the "demonic corpse of Betty White," the whistle of an arrow, the unmistakable sound of vines bursting out of the ground. Wings beat even harder against her, and Rachel ducked her head; a concussion was hardly the best idea.

"Do something!" Quinn growled, her face momentarily visible as she caught the Fury under the chin, pushing yellow fangs away. Rachel gaped at her - then the monster tore free of Quinn's hold, and she was faced with steaming, wrinkled scales again.

"Rachel!" Quinn yelled as the Fury reared back, baring its yellow fangs. In desperation, Rachel threw an arm around its neck, wrenching it backward. They rolled off of Quinn, the monster thrashing madly in Rachel's hold. She hit the ground with a gasp, the weight of the Fury squeezing all the air out of her lungs.

A horrible smell assaulted her, turning her stomach inside out and burning her throat with each breath. Rachel spluttered, turning her nose away and fighting down the urge to hurl as it threatened to overwhelm her - the unmistakable scent of death.

 _The scent of death._  Her eyes flew open, and she tightened her hold around the struggling Fury's neck.

"Quinn!" she wheezed, ducking as the Fury reached over its shoulder, trying to tear her face off. "Get the dog! It's - the smell - "

She heard sneakers pounding on the pavement. Rachel shut her eyes tight as a silver blade flashed above her, sinking into the Fury's chest with a  _thud_. It let out an ear-splitting howl, exploding into a shower of yellow dust.

Rachel sat up, blinking. Quinn stood over her, sword in hand and Laelaps by her side. Behind her, Rachel glimpsed the other three, still trying to keep the remaining Furies at bay.

"D-Did you get it?" she asked. "Do we have the means to track Thanatos now?"

Quinn quirked an eyebrow and looked down at Laelaps. "Hear that, boy? The loudmouth wants you to go find Thanatos."

As if in answer, the dog barked and shot off down the path. Rachel groaned as Quinn raced after it; she did  _not_  want to run for her life again. She staggered to her feet as the Furies screeched, wheeling around and taking off after Quinn.

"You're kidding!" Santana yelled as Rachel sprinted past them. She heard the other three break into a run behind her. Up ahead, a Fury swooped for Quinn, crashing into the ground with a sickening  _crunch_  as the blonde veered left.

Rachel swerved, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust as she dashed through the second Fury's remains. She clutched at the stitch in her side; she didn't know where Laelaps was taking them, but she desperately hoped they'd get there soon - or, at least, before her lungs burst.

A triple arch loomed up ahead. Rachel gasped when she saw what stood atop it: bronze animals, and a stone clock face - the Delacorte Music Clock. Laelaps waited by the arch, barking furiously. Closing in on him, wailing Fury right on her tail, was Quinn.

"Finn!" Rachel wheezed, glancing over her shoulder. "I have no idea if this is even possible while running, but - "

"Shoot the damn Fury!" Santana cut in.

Finn skidded to a halt behind her. An arrow came flying over the top of her head, hitting the Fury square in the wing. It shrieked, fighting to keep itself in the air as blood streamed down its back.

"Insolent demigods," it growled, steadying itself and turning towards them. "Lord Hades will have your souls for this!"

Rachel backed away. She saw Quinn running her hands over the arch's bricks, as if searching for something; whatever it was, she hoped it wouldn't take long. The Fury might not have had their attention problems, but sooner or later, it was going to remember that it had better demigods to skewer.

Santana must have realized the same thing. She stopped beside Rachel, spear cocked back and aimed at the Fury's chest.

"Oh yeah?" she yelled back. "Who says I've got one?"

Rachel ducked. Bronze flashed in the sun as the spear hurtled through the air, tip spewing red sparks. The Fury dodged - but not fast enough. The spear drove clean through its head, spraying yellow dust everywhere.

Santana stepped calmly out of the way as her weapon fell back to earth. Finn and Brittany came up behind her just as she stowed away the pepper spray can; Finn looked absolutely terrified.

"You only do that to monsters, right?" he said, careful not to stand too close.

Santana raised an eyebrow in clear disdain. "You _wish_  you could be the victim of my badassness."

"What's Quinn doing?" Brittany said, linking pinkies with Santana.

Rachel turned to look. Quinn was reaching up on tiptoe, pressing a hand to one of the bricks. She stepped back, and Rachel glimpsed a soft blue glow in the spot where Quinn's hand had been. It blinked out just as they approached.

For a moment Rachel wondered if they'd somehow made things go wrong. Then a long, low rumble ran through the bricks, and the side of the closest support pillar started sinking slowly into the ground. They gaped about as much as the newly-formed entrance did.

“Does this mean we’re going to Diagon Alley?” Brittany asked.

Before any of them could even answer, Laelaps barked and bounded into the darkness.


	11. Quinn Fabray and the Troubling Parallels with Harry Potter

It wasn't so much Diagon Alley as it was the cupboard under the stairs.

For one thing, wherever they were, it was completely dark. Rachel squinted and held out her hands, trying to figure out where everyone else was. She latched onto someone's elbow. Judging from the lack of sarcastic nicknames - and the undignified squeak of surprise - she'd found Finn.

"Rach?" he asked, reaching out and narrowly missing her nose. "Did I hit you? I'm sorry!"

"Shut up, Frankenteen," Santana barked from somewhere to Rachel's left. A faint red light flickered to life above them; Santana was holding her spear aloft.

"Where are we?" Rachel asked, looking around.

Rough-hewn stone loomed up on either side, weathered and ancient. The ceiling hung low over their heads, and darkness stretched out far beyond the reach of their makeshift torch. The stale air, suffocating in its stillness, told them they were somewhere underground.

"Nowhere good," Quinn said, frowning. She stepped into the light, running a hand over the walls. "We shouldn't be here."

"Why not?" Finn asked. "I mean, your dog led us here - "

Quinn stared at him, lips pursed - the time-tested Fabray way of calling someone a moron without even saying anything. Clearly, there were no explanations coming.

"We're part of this quest now," Rachel said resolutely, drawing herself up. If Quinn wasn't going to volunteer any answers, she was just going to have to drag them out herself. "As much as you might hate it, there are several advantages to adding two more people to your team."

One of which was that those two people would stop her from destroying the world, but Quinn didn't need to know that. Rachel folded her arms, waiting as Quinn looked her over with a frown.

Santana snorted. "Or we could leave you here to die."

Rachel glared at her - one of the few times it was safe to do so. If there was one good thing about having only the magical spear for illumination, it was that Santana couldn't actually use it to kill people. Not that a long life would do them any good at the moment - from what Rachel could tell, the entrance they'd gone through had disappeared. They were trapped, and for all of Santana's snark, they were just as likely to die in there as Rachel and Finn were.

"Tell them the prophecy, Q," Brittany said quietly.

Quinn's gaze faltered. Rachel tried not to scowl; the thought of Quinn having a certain fondness for Brittany just struck her as hypocritical. After all, she was the cause of an impending apocalypse - she had no right to go around looking at her friends like that, like she _cared._

 _"Child of Lightning, beware the earth,"_  Quinn finally said, locking eyes with Rachel. Her brow crinkled, as if she were trying to figure something out.  _"The giants' revenge the seven shall birth."_

It was Rachel's turn to frown. The first line was clear enough - it was the earth-woman from her dream who had tipped her off about Quinn, after all - but the second - her mind exploded with questions.  _What giants? Revenge? Seven? Were they supposed to play midwife to seven angry, pregnant monsters?_

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Finn. Whether he'd reached the same conclusion, she didn't know, but he looked ready to explode from strain. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

 _"Your way, the boons of gods make plain,"_ Quinn went on.  _"Death shall legend twice restrain."_

She fell silent. Rachel blinked, waiting for the next lines. Finn looked up, confusion written all over his face.

"That's all?"

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, did you want footnotes and an index? Yes, moron, that's all."

Rachel's frown deepened; the squirming in her stomach told her that it most definitely was not all. Then there was Mr. D, and what he'd said when he let them go:  _The quest prophecy says that much will be lost on this journey._  The lines Quinn recited had said nothing like that, unless he meant the loss of dignity inherent in being some monsters' impromptu obstetricians.

She glanced at Brittany and Santana, but they didn't seem surprised; she could only guess that Quinn hadn't told them the rest of the prophecy either. A chill ran down her spine. For all any of them knew, Quinn might be leading them to their deaths - or, at least, to some kind of horrible fate. For all any of them knew, she'd brought them there to get them out of the way.

Laelaps barked, loud and impatient, sending echoes all along the tunnel. He sniffed at the air and scampered off into the shadows. There was a moment's hesitation - and then Quinn trudged after him, Brittany and Santana close behind.

Rachel shot Finn a nervous glance; he looked as terrified as she felt.

"She was lying about the prophecy, wasn't she?" he asked faintly.

Rachel looked at the little halo of red light bobbing along ahead of them. "Yes."

He nodded, as if he were trying to convince himself. "All right. Okay. Let's do this."

And with that, they raced into the darkness.

*

It took them all of five seconds to realize that they'd stumbled into something worse than a simple underground tunnel.

The passage twisted and turned, branching off into a slew of different corridors every few feet. Laelaps led them on, around one corner and past the next, but even with his sure guidance, Rachel couldn't help but feel hopelessly lost.

It wasn't just the dizzying path they were taking. The tunnel itself changed at almost every turn, seemingly at random. One moment they were walking past the same weathered stones, and the next they were trudging along the smooth concrete of a sewer. Even Quinn looked a little thrown.

"This isn't right," she muttered, slipping her flashlight out of her pocket.

The walls had become moldy wooden planks, and the ground beneath them had turned into slick mud. She clicked the flashlight on, but they didn't get more lighting - just her silver sickle-sword, glowing a faint red as it reflected the light of Santana's spear.

"Maybe we can go back and - I don't know, start over?" Finn said tentatively.

The moment he said it, a low rumble shook the path behind them. Rachel's heart sank. They turned around, and sure enough a brick wall stood where the rest of the tunnel had been. The message was clear: No one was going back anytime soon.

"Shit," Santana said.

As much as she hated profanity, Rachel was inclined to agree. The wall looked about as solid as walls went, and no matter how magical Laelaps was, she doubted they could use him as a battering ram. Then she noticed that Santana wasn't even looking at the wall.

She was floundering around, trying to kick her way out as her feet sank into the ground. All at once, the rest of them looked down. Mud was starting to rise over the tops of their sneakers, bubbling up and latching onto their ankles.

 _"Di immortales,"_ Quinn said, wrenching herself free. "That's it, we have to get out of here."

"Get out  _how?_ " Rachel said, cringing as she plowed through the heap of mud forming around her feet. "As you can probably see, we're in the middle of being swallowed up by the ground."

"Just keep moving," Brittany chimed in, walking through the mud like it wasn't there at all. She smiled at them as she tugged Santana along. "Like that movie with the fish said. Just keep moving, just keep moving - "

Laelaps ran circles around her, yapping happily. Rachel stared at him; sometimes she wondered if that dog really did have their best interests in mind.

"They were swimming, Britt," Santana said. "But she's right, it's easier if we keep moving."

"Right, okay, so we do that," Finn said, taking one cautious step forward. "Follow Laelaps down the tunnel. No big deal."

Then the tunnel disappeared.

*

They found themselves in a huge circular room. Rachel stared at the domed ceiling rising high above them; it was hard to believe that something that big could possibly be underground. Colored tiles lined the walls; right across from them, covering almost half the entire stretch of wall, was a mosaic of the twelve Olympians.

Rachel frowned. For some reason, it looked oddly familiar.

"Gods damn you, Hudson," Santana grumbled as she took in their new surroundings. "Will you stop giving this damned place ideas?"

"He got rid of the mud though," Brittany said cheerfully.

"We should set up camp," Quinn said. "I have no idea how we got here, but as long as Finn keeps his mouth shut, it's a decent place to sleep." She turned to Brittany. "Can you grow us some dinner, B?"

Brittany nodded and spread her arms. Vines curled up from the ground. Rachel drew back on instinct; the vines were laden with fruit, but that didn't mean she couldn't still be shackled by some stray blackberries. Finn chortled as he stepped past her, plopping himself down next to the exit.

"Great, let's go channel our inner cavemen," Santana muttered, propping her spear up against the wall. She set down her bag and rummaged through it, flinging out Ziploc after Ziploc stuffed with food. Rachel stared; she'd never seen so many breadsticks in her life.

"She's kind of an addict."

Rachel jumped.

"But obviously you're not here to watch Santana ruin her waistline," Quinn went on, raising an eyebrow as she drew level with Rachel. "So what are you really here for, Manhands?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Finn gape at her, horrified. Santana looked up, smirking; how she managed to do that with a mouth full of breadsticks and  _still_  look terrifying, Rachel didn't know - and she didn't exactly have the time to find out.

"Well?" Quinn prompted, tapping her foot.

"If you must know, we - " Rachel stopped, casting around for an answer. She couldn't find it in herself to lie; outright dishonesty had never been her strong suit, and with Quinn bearing down on her, she couldn't muster the nerve to even add it to her wardrobe. She glanced helplessly at Finn.

"Mr. D sent us," he blurted out.

Quinn and Santana turned to look at him, surprised. Rachel took the opportunity to mouth a silent  _"thank you"_ before breathing in deep, trying to ignore the myriad of criticisms welling up in her head. She'd have to be quicker on her feet if they were going to see the quest through to the end.

"He sent you," Quinn repeated skeptically. Rachel bit her lip as Finn wavered under Quinn's withering gaze. "Mr. D sent _you_. On a quest. That  _we_  were already assigned to."

"He said - he said we had to protect Brittany," Finn said weakly, grimacing as he added, "Because he didn't think Santana could do it alone."

"He said that?" Santana demanded, springing to her feet. "He seriously  _said that?"_

"S!" Quinn snapped, grabbing Santana by the arm before she could snatch up her spear. Finn drew back, cowering against the wall.

"No - I have had it up to  _here_  with that boozed-up hypocrite," Santana growled, trying to shove Quinn away. Rachel stepped back, trembling, and Santana fixed blazing eyes on her. "And you, you think just because you did that weird circus freak voodoo at the campfire, that makes you, what, fucking qualified?"

"S," Quinn said firmly, shooting Finn a glare as she clamped down on Santana's shoulders. "S! Calm the hell down or I swear I'm going to burn all your breadsticks."

Santana stilled, glowering at Quinn. "You wouldn't dare."

"No," Quinn admitted, glancing over Santana's shoulder. "But Britt's here, so shut up."

Rachel looked up. Sure enough, Brittany was making her way towards them, brow furrowed with concern. For a moment, she thought Brittany had heard them - but then Rachel figured she would've come over sooner if she had.

"B?" Santana said, pushing Quinn out of the way, the fire in her eyes extinguished. "B, what happened?"

"They're dying," Brittany said, taking Santana by the hand and pulling her towards the fruit vines. "They're dying, San, and I don't know why."

*

Their dinner had gone up in smoke.

Unfortunately, it smelled nothing like freshly baked cookies and Chinese takeout. Rachel gagged as they closed in on the patch of burnt and blackened vines; what little was left reeked of scorched earth and chemicals.

"What the hell?" Finn spluttered, wincing and clapping a hand over his nose.

"They just keep dying," Brittany whimpered, waving a hand over the plants.

More vines sprang out of the ground, shrivelling up the moment they appeared. Rachel cringed; the sharp hiss of burning acid filled the air, and the new vines dropped to the ground, as dead as the others.

Santana wrapped an arm around Brittany and started steering her away.

"Wait," Quinn said, narrowing her eyes. She pointed at a clump of vines creeping up the opposite wall. "There's nothing wrong with  _those."_

Fat, round grapes and clumps of berries gleamed at them from the other side of the room. Even the leaves looked an absurdly healthy green. Rachel could almost imagine them mocking their disfigured comrades, armed with high-pitched versions of Quinn's and Santana's voices. She shook her head; the thought of it was almost as unnerving as the charred and twisted vines in front of her.

"B," Quinn said, frowning as she surveyed the ground. "Can you grow some more?"

Brittany's eyes widened, and Santana drew her closer, glaring at Quinn for good measure.

"Q," she said through gritted teeth. "Ask her that again and - "

"We both know you're not going to kill me," Quinn interrupted, not even looking up. "So skip the death threats or make new ones - you've been recycling them since forever."

Finn sniggered. Rachel made a mental note to chastise him for condoning a suspicious individual's jokes once they were done with - well, with whatever they had to deal with at the moment. She watched as Quinn walked slowly past them, eyes trained on the ground as she traced an invisible line through the air with her finger.

"Here," Quinn declared, stopping a few feet away. She pointed out a spot that was level with the dead vines. "Can you grow some here, B?"

Before Santana could even protest, Brittany nodded and waved her hand. Vines rose from the floor, writhing like snakes and dropping dead in an instant. Brittany sniffled, and Santana drew her away, flashing Quinn the finger as she did.

Not that Quinn seemed to care. In fact, she broke out into a triumphant grin; Rachel filed it away as even more evidence of her destructive intentions. People didn't react to insults that way unless they were sociopathic, after all.

"There's a trail here," Quinn explained, dashing Rachel's hopes of finally gathering evidence for a psychiatric assessment.

"Look, there are some faint scorch marks near those." She pointed at the vines at Rachel's feet. "And they go on here." She waved a hand over the wasted dinner beside her before bending down and squinting at the ground. "And they lead...there."

Rachel frowned. Quinn was pointing at their only exit: the dark, gaping hole cut into the mouth of a giant snake mosaic. It wasn't exactly the most heartening of sights. Unfortunately, Finn appeared to have gotten the exact opposite impression.

"We should check it out," he said, squaring his shoulders. He strode towards the passageway, stopping to look back at them as he reached the threshold. "What? A quest should be about more than just watching food die."

“And your brilliant idea is to watch _yourself_  die?” Quinn sniped, planting her hands on her hips. “Get back here, Hudson.”

“No.” Finn frowned at them, defiant, and Rachel could almost see the decision cementing itself in his mind, the way it had in the Apollo cabin. Then Finn turned and ran, Laelaps on his tail, leading them straight into the mouth of the snake.

*

They emerged in a full-fledged desert. Or, at least, the closest it could get to a desert in an underground cavern. Torches lined the walls, burning the unmistakable green of Greek fire; sand stretched out in all directions, a vast expanse painted eerie by the light of the flames. It was like stepping into the Slytherin common room on Arabian Night.

“I’m going to  _kill_ him,” Quinn muttered, edging her way into the room.

Rachel trudged in after her, careful to avoid the scorch marks on the ground. They’d gotten clearer with every step along the short passage that led to the cavern, and there, crisscrossing the bed of undisturbed sand in thick lines, they were darker than ever. Wisps of green smoke rose from each trail, filling the room with the sharp smell of acid.

Laelaps gave a little bark of acknowledgement as they approached. Beside him, Finn stood waiting, looking utterly confused.

“Nice pad, Finnessa,” Santana said, scrunching up her nose. “A literal hellhole.”

Brittany’s face lit up. “Ooh, this is yours? Do you have any camels?”

As if in answer, a loud hiss that was definitely  _not_  from a camel echoed through the room. The sand started shifting. Laelaps bounded towards them, and Finn stumbled after him as more sand slid out from beneath their feet.

Rachel’s hands moved almost of their own accord, notching an arrow and drawing the string taut before she could even begin to wonder how to actually _use_  a bow. She swiveled around, trying to figure out where to aim. It would have been easy, if only she weren’t surrounded by four other people and a hyperactive dog. Suddenly, fleeing that one archery class seemed like a gross oversight.

Quinn, apparently, thought the same thing. She raised an eyebrow and held her sickle-sword up - the better to cut wayward arrows out of the air, Rachel figured. Laelaps snarled as he crouched beside Quinn, hackles raised and teeth bared. Close by, Finn drew his own bow, and Santana placed herself in front of Brittany, spear at the ready. Rachel couldn’t help but smile; as long as she didn’t accidentally maim anyone, she was fairly sure they could handle any monster.

She was wrong.

Sand burst up from under their feet, knocking them flat on their backs. The hissing grew louder - closer. Rachel rolled over and pushed herself up, clutching her bow tight. Green smoke surrounded her, a dense cloud that filled her lungs with the smell of burning, biting acid. She staggered back, the very air searing her skin.

Rachel squinted, blinking the tears from her stinging eyes. She could just make out the red glow of Santana’s spear, glowing faint through the haze - and then something was rearing up above her, a dark mass rising from the very heart of the venomous smog. It hissed, holding its head high, scorching the ground as it advanced.

Rachel turned and ran. She burst out of the smoke cloud, every inch of her stung raw, the sound of burning earth and hissing serpent close behind. Far to her left, Finn came sprinting. She swerved for him, diving out of the way as the snake struck sand, passing so close she could feel the heels of her sneakers starting to melt.

“Duck!” Finn yelled, skidding to a halt and notching an arrow. It flew over her head, sinking with a loud  _thud_ into the monster’s flesh. Rachel twisted around. The snake was immense, the half of its body that was visible already more than forty feet long. Finn’s arrow was a red dot on its black scales, and as they watched, a green liquid oozed from its body, crawling up the arrow’s shaft and leaving cinders in its wake.

“What the hell,” Finn breathed, lowering his bow.

“B!”

Rachel turned. Off to their right, Quinn had scrambled out of the cloud of green smoke; further off, she could just make out Brittany and Santana.

“B!” Quinn called. “Tie it down!”

Brittany spread her arms. Vines sprang up around the snake, wrapping around it in tight coils. It thrashed in their hold, and Rachel glimpsed a white marking atop its head, shaped like a crown - and then the vines were wilting, falling dead to the ground. The snake wheeled itself around, heading straight for Brittany.

 _“Di immortales!”_  Quinn cursed, running to head it off.

She drew her sword, and with a jolt of horror Rachel realized Quinn probably hadn’t seen Finn’s arrow. She raced after Quinn, yelling, “Don’t touch it!”

But Quinn wasn’t stopping. Rachel dug her heels into the ground, drawing an arrow and aiming straight for the serpent. She let it loose, and it whistled over Quinn’s shoulder, hitting the monster in the side. Quinn stumbled back as more green liquid enveloped the arrow, incinerating it.

“Don’t touch it!” Rachel repeated, running to help her up. Quinn stared, eyes wide, at the wall of black scales slithering past them.

“Basiliskos,” she whispered, backing away and dragging Rachel with her. “It’s a basiliskos.” 

The snake hissed, as if it had heard her - but before it could even move towards them, a howl pierced through the air. Laelaps came speeding out of the cloud of smoke, barking like mad as he planted himself right in front of the monster. The snake bared its fangs and Laelaps took off, racing around it, leading it away.

Rachel gaped as Laelaps ran along the far wall, dodging poison as the snake hurled itself after him. Then Brittany and Santana darted past them, and Quinn broke into a run, tugging Rachel along behind her. “S! It’s a basiliskos! Don’t touch it! Don’t look it in the eye!”

“What the hell, Thor! Just because you have the emo lightning thing going, doesn’t mean you’re HARRY FREAKING POTTER!” Santana yelled back, glancing over her shoulder. Her glare faltered, and she put on another spurt of speed, snapping her head forward. “Fuck! Don’t look back!”

They didn’t need to ask why. Frantic baying rang out behind them, drawing closer. Rachel felt Quinn’s hold tighten around her wrist, yanking her forward. Her legs burned as she tried to run faster. Blood rushed in her ears.

And then Laelaps overtook them.

They swerved - left, then right, sand flying everywhere as the snake struck for them again and again. Green smoke billowed out from behind them; the ground crackled as the basiliskos burned its way through.

Up ahead, Finn closed his eyes and raised his bow, two arrows notched and ready. Laelaps streaked past him, Santana and Brittany close behind; they slid to safety, ducking smoothly under the arrows that cut through the air. Quinn let go of Rachel, shoving her away; both arrows whistled between them, one after the other, the snake screeching and tossing as they met their mark.

Rachel sprinted to the others, half expecting Quinn to crash into her as she stumbled to a stop - but Quinn wasn’t there. It was like the ground had fallen away from under her. She whirled around, fear pumping through her veins.

Quinn stood with her back to them, arms stretched wide. Blue sparks danced across her skin. Before Rachel could even move forward, Finn grabbed her shoulders and flung her around. She struggled against his grip, hearing the basiliskos uncoil itself behind them - probably bearing down on Quinn, fangs bared, ready to -

 _BOOM._

The explosion rocked the whole cavern. They turned around, in time to see the snake fly across the air, smacking into the far wall with a loud  _THUD._ Quinn turned to face them, eyes still shut tight, a smile spreading over her pale face. Behind her, a strip of ground shone white - the lightning had turned sand into glass.

They ran forward to meet her - and then Finn yelped and drew back.

“You should have blasted Voldemort’s diary,” Brittany said faintly, looking over Quinn’s shoulder.

The basiliskos was rising up from the ground, spitting out poison as it slithered towards them. They turned around; out of the corner of her eye, Rachel could see Quinn staring at the ground, thinking hard.

Then she grabbed Brittany and ran.

“Get the hell back here, bitch!” Santana yelled, racing after them, Finn and Rachel struggling to keep up. 

More green smoke surged from behind them; Laelaps swerved, knocking Finn and Rachel off course. The ground shook as the basiliskos crashed into it, mere inches from biting their heads off. The snake rose up, hissing angrily. Laelaps turned to face it, snarling, and Rachel felt a stab of guilt as she shot off after Santana.

“I’m saving your pathetic ass, you idiot!” Quinn called back. “Distract it!”

“What the fuck, Q - this is not the time to stand around and look hot!”

“THE OTHER DISTRACTION!”

“Just fucking say so!” Santana shouted, digging her heels into the ground and turning around. She blocked Finn and Rachel’s path with her spear. “All right, cannon fodder, time to earn your keep.”

“If you’re thinking of sacrificing us to save yourselves, it won’t work,” Rachel snapped as she and Finn skidded to a stop.

“Good idea, but no,” Santana said, sneering. “Who else would test our cabin’s thumbscrews?” She tapped their bows. “For now, you get to do something less productive.”

Rachel scowled, notching another arrow. Laelaps was still holding off the snake, scampering around it, but he was losing ground. Inch by inch, the basiliskos drew closer, lifting its head high and spitting poison everywhere. Santana inhaled, stowing her spear away and drawing her sword.

“Don’t shoot me or I’ll haunt your midget ass all the way to Hades,” she growled, shutting her eyes. Then, before either of them could even ask, she cried out and charged.

The basiliskos dove right for her. Santana rolled to the side, springing up and driving her sword into the snake’s back. It let out a horrifying screech, flailing and thrashing. Poison started creeping up the blade, and Santana let go, keeping her head down as she darted past the monster’s writhing coils.

“Now!” she yelled, and Rachel and Finn loosed their arrows, their eyes fixed on the monster’s body as they fired volley after volley.

“What the hell is Quinn doing?” Finn demanded, ducking his head as the basiliskos reared up, spewing poison.

As if in answer, Quinn’s voice rang out from halfway across the room. “HEY! Hey, you sad excuse for a phallic symbol! Over here!”

The serpent let out a low hiss, turning and gliding towards her, leaving burnt sand in its wake. Rachel lowered her bow, watching as Quinn shut her eyes, spreading her arms once again. Dread shot through her - the lightning hadn’t done it once, there was no way it was going to succeed this time.

Then vines burst out of the ground, launching sand up in a massive wall in front of Quinn. Lightning arced through it, thousands upon thousands of volts running through each particle - and Rachel stared, open-mouthed, as the entire thing turned into a solid pane of glass.

The monster froze in its tracks. Gray liquid seemed to be enclosing it, flowing over its black scales. It gave one last shudder, and then the sound of splitting rock filled the room. The basiliskos had turned to stone.

“Ha,” Quinn wheezed, limping towards them, a smirk plastered firmly on her bloodless face. Brittany walked behind her, smiling wide as Laelaps greeted them with a bark.

“Well, it makes more sense than a singing hat,” Santana said, scowling. She rummaged in her pocket and tossed Quinn a single brownie square wrapped in plastic.

“Ooh,” Brittany said, pointing. “Finn has an idea lightbulb.”

They all turned to look as Finn drew his head back. Yellow light glowed above him, and his eyes grew wide as it faded away, revealing a shining, golden lyre.

“Seriously?” Quinn said, raising an eyebrow.

“How many of you are there?!” Santana demanded, jabbing an accusatory finger at Rachel.

“What?” Rachel asked indignantly. “What do you mean?”

“That’s the sign of Apollo,” Quinn said, frowning. “The  _usual_ one, at least.”

Rachel stared at the symbol hanging in the air, confusion flooding her thoughts. The sign of Apollo - and yet it didn’t look anything like the one at  _her_ claiming. She’d never heard of the gods using different signs to identify their children. She looked around - at Finn, mouth hanging open in shock; at Quinn, the look in her eyes unfathomable - but no one seemed to have an explanation.

“Well now,” a voice said from somewhere above them. “This is the _perfect_ time for a nap, don’t you think?”


	12. Over Dead Bodies

There was nothing traumatizing about a nightgown.

Or, at least, there shouldn't have been. Viewed from a low angle on a person with nothing underneath, though - it was more than a little scarring. Rachel tried not to gag as she turned away. Clearly, all those nude Greek statues had been false advertising. That one unwanted glimpse of godly ass was anything but artistic.

"Yes, I figured that would wake you up," the man said as he floated down to the ground.

He had wings on his head, and he fixed them with a gaze frostier than an Antarctic ice shelf, but what struck Rachel the most was his skin: pearly gray, like smoke trapped in a bottle. The sight of it filled her with unease; it felt inexplicably familiar.

"Lord Hypnos," Quinn said through gritted teeth. "What are you doing here?"

Rachel stared at him. She'd never thought of gods as the type to wear nightgowns. Then again, she'd never thought of them as the type to show up either - which only made everything more confusing. She was certain she'd seen this man somewhere before.

Hypnos frowned at her, as if he'd heard what she was thinking.

"Checking in, obviously," he finally said, turning a disdainful eye on Quinn. "And, it seems, with good reason."

He looked them over, eyebrow rising higher and higher as his eyes raked from one person to the next. Rachel figured it was a sign of their dire state that a grown man in a  _nightgown_ could regard them with such contempt. She tried to smooth out her skirt, dusting sand out of the creases as inconspicuously as possible.

Beside her, Quinn and Santana stood glowering - but with mud on their jeans and sand in their hair, even _they_  fell short of looking believably defiant.

Hypnos tutted in disapproval. "You seem to be doing this quest with your eyes closed."

Quinn clenched her fists, and he leaned in close, as if daring her to hit him. "It is time to wake up, little half-bloods."

Quinn's jaw tightened. Rachel reached for her hand, in case she really  _did_ try to hit him, but she jerked it away.

"We're not asleep," Brittany piped up, casting Quinn a worried glance.

"I believe they also said that in  _Inception_ ," Hypnos said, turning slowly to face her.

Santana edged in front of Brittany, pepper spray can in hand. The god frowned at them. "What a foolish idea. Just because you're not sleeping, doesn't mean you're awake."

"But we are," Quinn snapped, hobbling forward. "So you can go take your useless little proverbs somewhere else, because we know what we're doing."

"Do you?" Hypnos said quietly.

The air started rippling around him. Rachel felt something brush against her forehead - the slightest touch, like her daddy sweeping her hair back, kissing her good night. Warmth enveloped her, the familiar scratch of her blanket curling around her heavy limbs.

Hypnos turned to look at her, his gaze a black hole pulling everything in - pain, worry, the memory of waking. Rachel closed her eyes. There was no world to save, no father to run from, in the darkness of sleep.

A blast of cold air hit her square in the face - then another, and another, chasing the lethargy out of her veins. Rachel shook her head. Wind whipped furiously around them, beating back whatever it was Hypnos was sending their way. Brittany and Santana straightened up, rubbing the sleep from their eyes; Finn woke with a jolt. Even Laelaps lifted his head from the ground, whining.

The wind died down, and Quinn drew herself up, mouth set in a grim line.

Hypnos' eyes burned with black fire. "The world will not wait for you, daughter of Zeus. War approaches. Olympus is divided, and my brother - "

"Is too wimpy to even bust himself out and fix this," Santana interrupted, stepping up beside Quinn. "If he can wait, then so can the rest of you."

"Ah," Hypnos said, fixing his gaze on her. "The celebrated daughter of Ares. I take it your father doesn't brag about his failures at the hands of Hephaestus. Or else his precious little soldier would know that, once trapped, a god's power is useless."

"So who's trapped you?" Quinn sniped, hazel eyes stormier than ever. Brittany laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

"Quinn's trying, okay?" Brittany said softly, turning to look at Hypnos.

"Then she isn't trying hard enough!" he cried, throwing his hands up. The wings on his head flapped in agitation as he rounded on Quinn.

"Your time runs short, Quinn Fabray! While you tramp merrily along in Daedalus' little Labyrinth, the dead strain against the failing bonds of the Underworld. The gods prepare for war. And there are worse things, ancient things, beginning to wake - "

"You can't expect us to solve all that in a day," Finn said indignantly. "If it's so important, why don't you stupid gods find Thanatos yourself?"

Hypnos fell silent. He glared at Finn, the black flames in his eyes dancing higher. For a moment, Rachel feared he would actually blast Finn to bits - then the fire disappeared, and Hypnos regarded them all with a coldness that was even worse.

"He is shrouded from me," he said tonelessly. "The Labyrinth is ancient magic - treacherous, impenetrable. It hides much, even from the gods. We know no more about it than you do."

"Only," Rachel said slowly, a knot forming in her stomach as the implications set in, "unlike you, we're dispensable."

"Quite," Hypnos said, studying her with narrowed eyes.

Rachel stared at him in disbelief. They were expected to be used, simple as that. All of the campers had said as much, but hearing it from a god made it that much harder to swallow.

"Also unlike me," Hypnos continued, his outline fading with every word, "you hold the fate of the world in your hands. I suggest you do not drop it."

She glanced at Quinn. Blue sparks danced along her skin, splashes of color on her chalk-white knuckles. She held her head high, her face a blank mask as she watched Hypnos vanish.

Even then, Rachel thought she'd never looked so fragile.

*  
As it turned out, she'd never been so relentless either.

Quinn led them through the Labyrinth with a manic determination that even Rachel found disturbing. They ran through passage after passage, barely even stopping to catch their breath. The walls kept changing - red brick, wood, damp earth - but Quinn raced past them without even blinking. Their quest had turned into a torturous marathon.

"We should," Finn huffed, crouching as they squeezed single-file through a cramped tunnel, "at least stop for a break."

"I doubt she'll let us," Rachel answered, tucking her elbows in as she crept after Brittany. "She certainly doesn't seem inclined to."

She looked around uneasily; with Laelaps too tired to even bark, the silence of the underground had become unbearable. For a second, Rachel considered singing. It had worked well enough in their empty house - but that was before she'd been claimed, back when singing still felt right.

She glanced over her shoulder at Finn, wondering what he would sound like if he sang. The thought of it felt like a slap to the face. She'd taken him on the quest, and he'd gotten what he wanted - she just didn't understand why he had to make it harder to get what  _she_  wanted, too.

"Q, we have to stop," Brittany said, her voice carrying through the still air of the tunnel. "We can't keep walking forever. We'd run out of road."

"Will you shut up?" Quinn snapped, hardly even slowing. "We're underground - there  _are_  no roads."

Which, of course, didn't stop Santana from running her over. Rachel shrieked as the bronze spear clattered to the floor, staining the ground with red light.

"What is  _wrong_  with you?" Santana said, twisting Quinn around by the arm.

"San, don't," Brittany said, laying a hand on Santana's shoulder and tugging her gently away.

"There is  _nothing_  wrong with me," Quinn spat, rolling her eyes as she wrenched herself free. She elbowed past Brittany and snatched up Santana's spear. "I'm not the one pouncing on people. Your attack dog needs a leash, Britt."

"So does yours," Brittany answered, meeting Quinn's scowl with a blank stare. "Someone needs to tell Laelaps to stop."

They all turned to look at Quinn, waiting with bated breath as the unspoken end of Brittany's reply hung thick in the air:  _Someone needs to tell_  you  _to stop._  Quinn regarded them with stormy hazel eyes, her gaze so hard and distant it felt as though she didn't see them there at all.

"But no one's going to," she said resolutely, turning and setting off down the tunnel.

She didn't even look back.

*  
They emerged in a narrow chamber. Darkness pressed in from all sides, cold and forbidding. The very air was still, heavy, as if there was something it was trying not to disturb. Rachel wrapped her arms around herself. A thousand invisible eyes seemed to be watching them, waiting.

Quinn held Santana's spear up higher, casting beams of red light on the walls. Patches of murals rose out of the shadows: fish and loaves, shepherds and prophets, their faded outlines smeared with layers of grime. Set into the rock, framing each image in weathered lines, slabs of marble bore worn inscriptions.

"Catacombs," Quinn murmured, swinging the spear around. A chill ran down Rachel's spine. Row upon row of graves surrounded them, etched with forgotten names and lost epitaphs. They had walked right into an endless procession of the dead.

"Good to know we're not joining them soon," Santana muttered, grimacing as she steered Brittany away from the walls.

"I've been thinking about that," Finn began, scowling when everyone stared at him in shock. "I think about stuff too, okay?"

"Sure you do," Quinn scoffed.

She made to move on, but before any of them could even complain, she stopped and lowered the spear. Curled up on the ground, in an impressive imitation of a fluffy throw rug, was a soundly sleeping Laelaps.

It wasn't exactly the break any of them were looking for.

"I don't want to sleep with dead people," Brittany said fearfully, clutching at Santana’s arm.

Quinn rolled her eyes as she set the spear against the wall. “Does it look like we have a choice?”

“As objectionable as the idea is, Quinn’s right,” Rachel put in, looking around nervously. She still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. “We’re not in any condition to go on anyway.”

“No one asked you, Stubbles,” Quinn snarled, dropping to the ground. She leaned back against the wall and narrowed her eyes. “Well? This is what you all want, right?”

“No, what I want is to ship you off to Canada,” Santana retorted, sitting by the opposite wall. Brittany huddled up next to her. “Then you can go have your PMS party with Sandy instead of us.”

Quinn folded her arms and turned away, closing her eyes. Finn glanced warily at her before setting down his quiver and taking the spot next to Brittany. Rachel followed suit, taking care not to lean on any marble slabs. She hugged her knees to her chest, watching as Quinn’s shoulders slumped and her breathing evened out. Apparently, they weren’t the only ones who were tired.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Finn started, breaking through her thoughts. “How can anyone even trap Death? Like, can’t he just teleport away or something?”

“Wasn’t there a myth about that?” Rachel asked, looking at Santana and Brittany for confirmation.

“Sisyphus,” Santana said, addressing her answer to some vague point in space just over Rachel’s shoulder. “But before you go all Dan Brown on us, no, my dad has the chains he used. Says it helps when he wants to skin people.”

“Wait,” Rachel said, trying not to think about Ares flaying anyone alive. “You’ve met your father?”

“Does it matter?” Santana shot back, rubbing her forearm irritably. “Camp isn’t an orphanage, FYI.”

“Anyway,” Finn said abruptly, waving a hand between them. “So if it’s not Sissy-puss—“

“Sisyphus,” Rachel corrected. “I believe you’ve just insulted a mythological villain who could very well attack you in your sleep.”

“Whatever, he’s dead,” Finn said dismissively. Rachel scowled. “So if it’s not him, then what else could work?”

“What about that ribbon?” Brittany piped up, laying her head on Santana’s shoulder. “The one that can’t be untied? Maybe someone wrapped Thanatos up in a box for Christmas.”

“The Gordian Knot?” Santana said. “B, no one even knows if that really exists.”

“Well, no one knows we exist.” Brittany yawned and closed her eyes. “No one knows this place is here either.”

Rachel stared at her. For someone who was nigh incomprehensible, Brittany had just made a very good point. She hadn’t even thought of the  _Labyrinth_  as real until Hypnos brought it up. She wondered if that was Quinn’s plan, to leave them lost in the mythical maze; the place was certainly big enough for it.

Santana cleared her throat. “Ogling much?”

“I was merely wondering,” Rachel sighed, “if what Hypnos said is true, and this is really Daedalus’ Labyrinth.”

She looked around, her eyes eventually falling on the glowing speartip propped up against the wall. In the dark of the catacombs, the red light threw Quinn’s face into sharp relief. She looked far more peaceful asleep; for a moment, Rachel almost found it hard to believe that she could orchestrate an apocalyptic civil war.

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Finn offered, squinting up at the murals.

Santana snorted. “Right, I’m trying not to make a ‘That’s what she said’ joke right now.”

“That’s what she said,” Brittany mumbled, shifting slightly and wrapping an arm around Santana’s waist. Even Finn had to grin.

“The Athena dorks say it keeps adding to itself,” Santana finally said, resting her cheek against Brittany’s hair. “Like it’s alive.”

“I hear Dadd – Dea – whatever,  _the inventor guy’s_  alive,” Finn said, glancing nervously at Rachel, as if he was afraid of being corrected again.

“He can’t be alive, Finn, he’s  _myth_ ,” she said, slapping him on the arm. “And even if he wasn’t, and this is really his Labyrinth, he would obviously have lived several thousand years ago at least.”

“I only said I heard!” Finn protested, rubbing his arm and scooting away. “And anyway, people like to say he’s hiding in here somewhere. Avoiding death.”

“Is that some ancient way to say he was gay?” Santana said incredulously. “Because if it is, he built himself one hell of a closet.”

“An unnecessary one, too, in light of our current quest,” Rachel added with a shrug.

The others fell silent, Hypnos’ visit clearly as fresh on their minds as it was on hers. It had been a stinging reminder; walking around in the isolation of the Labyrinth had almost felt like an extremely dangerous vacation. In a way, Hypnos had been right: they really did need to wake up.

That, and Quinn wasn’t trying hard enough. Rachel wondered if Hypnos knew of Quinn’s plan somehow – if that comment was his way of confirming Rachel’s suspicions. They certainly didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, no matter how hard Laelaps ran. She glanced at Quinn; it was amazing how she could still look so  _innocent._

“Well, good night, then,” Rachel said quietly, turning away and resting her head against the wall. Sleep weighed heavy on her limbs – and as disturbing as the idea of sleeping on someone’s grave was, it was at least the calmest place they’d been since the quest began.

“How do you even know it’s night?” Finn asked, stifling a yawn. “But yeah, okay, good night.”

“This conversation never happened,” Santana said flatly. “And Jolly Green? You take first watch.”

*

She woke to the sound of murmuring.

Specifically,  _Quinn_  murmuring, her voice fading away just as Rachel forced her eyes open. She straightened up, peering through the shadows; Quinn still lay slumped against the wall, looking for all the world like she was fast asleep.

“Quinn?” Rachel whispered as she crept across the room.

Finn grunted, rolling over and splaying all over the space she’d left on the floor. Rachel frowned.  _So much for keeping watch._

She squatted down in front of Quinn, debating whether or not to wake her. She looked so unguarded, her face free from any trace of anger or scorn, her lips quirked up in the first smile Rachel had seen from her in ages. To steal that easy calm from her felt almost criminal.

It was a pity that she was probably dreaming about the end of the world. Rachel reached out and shook her by the shoulder.

“Quinn,” she said, careful to keep her voice low. “Quinn, wake up.”

“What?” Quinn mumbled, halfheartedly swatting Rachel’s hand away.

“This is important!” Rachel hissed, shaking her harder. “Do you regularly talk in your sleep?”

“What?”

“Do you talk in your sleep?”

If looks could kill, Rachel figured she would have been literally drawn and quartered. Quinn drew herself up, all the peace of sleep gone in an instant.

“You woke me up,” she said, seething, “to ask me if I _talk in my sleep?”_

“I understand why you would be mad,” Rachel said quickly, backing away. “But I heard you talking, and you were asleep when I checked, so this could either be a breach of security – “

The rest of her explanation died in her throat. Quinn’s eyes widened, and she scrambled to her feet, mouth hanging open in horror.

“What?” Rachel spluttered as Quinn drew back. “What is it?”

She soon wished she hadn’t asked. The ground was bubbling, turning into liquid earth beneath them; the walls started melting, the marble slabs falling with dull  _thumps_  to the floor. Rachel screamed and leapt to her feet, splashing mud everywhere.

“What the hell?” Santana said, barely finding time to roll out of the way as more slabs slid down the walls. She hauled Brittany up; Finn scurried after them, still half asleep, struggling to sling bows and quivers over his shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“Do I look like I know?” Quinn said, seizing Santana’s spear and holding it over their heads.

That was when they saw the bones.

They rose out of the floor—remnants of people long dead, stained bloodred by the light. White nubs slowly turned into whole skeletons as the ground churned out more and more, generations of corpses stripped bare by rot. Skulls rolled through the mud, jaws and sockets spilling earth.

 _“Di immortales,”_ Quinn breathed, stumbling back.

Rachel clutched at her chest with numb fingers. Fear coursed through her veins, flooding her limbs with ice and rooting her in place. More bones started raining down on them from above, squeezing through the slop that the walls had become.

“This is –  _oh gods_ ,” Finn gasped, batting them out of the air as they fell towards him. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods – “

Laelaps barked at them, fighting to keep from being buried. He leapt out from under a pile of bones, sending fragments flying as he dashed off down the tunnel.

“Move!” Santana barked, shoving her way past them, one arm still wrapped around a crying Brittany’s shoulders. Finn sprinted after them, swinging his bow over his head.

“Are you  _deaf_ , Manhands?” Quinn shouted, pushing her forward before taking off down the chamber. Rachel couldn’t find the words to answer; her brain seemed to have gone into autopilot, driving her on, numb to the endless stream of bones splintering beneath her feet.

She could hear the others crashing along up ahead, Laelaps yowling almost nonstop, as if he knew they were running in the dark. The passage seemed endless. Rachel dodged wave after wave of skeletons, straining to keep up with Quinn as the catacombs emptied themselves out on all sides.

Then something echoed out above the relentless clatter of bones: the sound of someone pounding on wood. Quinn raised the spear, casting more light along the tunnel. Hope welled up within Rachel. Through the shadows, through the hail of ribs and skulls, she could just make out the outline of a door.

It didn’t take long for Santana to kick it down.

Sunlight spilled in through the doorway. The smell of cold, fresh air filled Rachel’s lungs as they stumbled out of the catacombs. Scraping rock screeched behind them: the stone wall was knitting itself together, sealing off the hole where the wooden door had been.

They had escaped the Labyrinth.


	13. A Giant Problem

It went without saying that a mountain was not a good place to go sunbathing.

Although "sunbathing" wasn't exactly the best term to use; as far as Rachel was concerned, "broiling" was a better fit. She shielded her eyes and squinted. Sunlight streamed in through the open windows, flooding the small circular room; after the endless dark of the Labyrinth, the sudden burst of light and warmth felt close to burning her skin off.

She tried to get up, half-expecting her worn legs to give out - but they didn't. Not even a quiver. Rachel held up her hand, flexing her fingers tentatively. The heat seemed to be seeping into her battered limbs, washing all the weariness away. It was like being hooked up to an IV drip of nectar.

"We need to get back in the Labyrinth," Quinn declared, breaking through her thoughts. She winced, limping over to the spot where the maze entrance had been. "Thanatos isn't here, I'm sure of it."

"Okay,  _one,_  there was a  _flood of skeletons_  in the Labyrinth," Santana said, snatching her pepper spray can up off the floor. Beside her, Brittany sniffed and nodded. "I'm not going back in there. Two, how can you be sure he isn't out here in some log cabin, murdering people with an axe?"

"It  _is_  a sensible career shift," Rachel agreed, trying to keep her voice even. She wasn't exactly raring to return to the Labyrinth either. "At least for him. Laelaps led us here, too. We should at least explore the theory before looking for a way back."

"Laelaps didn't lead us anywhere," Quinn retorted, scowling. "In case you didn't notice, we got  _flushed out_ of that tunnel. We’re about as on track as Lindsay Lohan's rehab program."

Rachel frowned as she studied Quinn. There was some sinister trap waiting for them back in the Labyrinth, if her insistence was any indication; whatever it was, Rachel was determined not to find out. The catacombs had been more than enough, and considering she'd heard her mumbling in the dark before  _that_ had happened - well, who was to say Quinn hadn't caused it?

"We're not taking any more detours," Quinn said flatly, glaring at her like she'd heard what Rachel was thinking. "I know you're itching to burn all those animal sweaters, Stubbles, but you can do that with a bonfire, not an apocalypse."

She turned to face the wall, pursing her lips as she looked it over. "We need a blue delta."

"How do you know what to look for?" Rachel blurted out.

Quinn didn't even bother looking up. "I don't know, maybe because it was there when I got us in the first time?" She huffed in clear frustration. "I hope you've filled your daily quota of stupid, Manhands, because we need that entrance  _now."_

"You need to be axe-murdered  _now_ _,"_ Santana grumbled, stalking over to the patch of wall farthest away from Quinn. She and Brittany peered at the rock, running their hands over it as they searched.

Rachel sighed. For all her protests, Santana was still more or less ready to follow Quinn's orders - which would have been a non-issue, if only Quinn wasn't teetering dangerously close to ordering all of them murdered. Suddenly, bringing up cabins and axes seemed like a bad idea.

She turned to look at Finn. He sat by one of the windows, staring down at his hands. Rachel wondered if it was the sunlight - if the claiming was finally sinking in. She could almost imagine all those years of Jesse's taunting hanging over Finn like some kind of sick welcome banner to the Apollo cabin. A lump formed in her throat; in a way, she'd helped put that banner up.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, squatting down beside him. "If I'd known that this would happen, I wouldn't have asked you along."

"Nah, it's fine," Finn said, nodding as though to convince himself. He let out a deep breath. "It's better this way. I mean, I've spent all these years wondering, you know? Now I don't have to."

"But now you're in the Apollo cabin," Rachel said, frowning. "They've been so  _awful_  to you, and now _Jesse's_  your brother - "

"And you're my sister," Finn interrupted. He looked up at her, a faint smile spreading across his face. "So it's not all bad, right?"

Rachel stared at him, unsure what to say. No, it wasn't all bad - but it wasn't much good either. So they were siblings; at most, it only guaranteed that she'd have someone to be miserable with in the Apollo cabin. How Finn could simply decide to find that comforting, as if such a simple detail could outweigh everything else, was incomprehensible to her.  _How could it be that easy?  
_  
"We should help them look," Rachel finally said as she stood up, careful to avoid meeting Finn's gaze. She still didn't know what to make of the conviction she'd seen there. "As detestable as the idea of returning to the Labyrinth is, in the interests of team spirit - "

"Don't bother," Santana cut in, planting a hand on her hip and scowling. "We've just been here, gagging at your afterschool special. There's nothing to find."

"The entrance is gone," Quinn said, glaring at them as if they'd somehow made it disappear. She strode across the room and waved Laelaps over as she pushed the lone exit open. "We need to find a new one."

*

Naturally, they found themselves right in the middle of the world's largest haystack.

"Maybe we can just close our eyes and pick a random spot," Brittany said as they stepped out onto the sandstone walkway.

"Britt?" Santana said, stopping in her tracks. "I don't think we can do that."

Wind whipped at their faces as they looked around; whatever mountain they'd managed to land themselves on, they were clearly at the summit. Rachel leaned out over the metal railings, her breath hitching as she took in the view.

The mountainside sloped gently down beneath them, a vast stretch of tree-lined ridges and crisscrossing trails flowing out into a valley that seemed almost boundless. She could make out several towns - sprawling grids of streets and buildings - dotting the landscape, some of them peeking out from under a layer of fog. In the distance, amidst the hills and mountains scattered along the horizon, a familiar bridge spanned the mouth of an even more familiar bay.

"Guys," Rachel said, gripping the metal tight, "I think I know where we are."

"No way," Finn said, his jaw dropping as he followed her gaze. "We can't have - "

"That's impossible," Quinn put in, brows furrowing in confusion. "We've only been traveling for at most two days.  _On foot."_

"We've been using more than one," Brittany corrected. "Unless yours are fake, like Mr. Schue's." She paused. "Are you secretly a woodland creature?"

Finn snorted. Rachel clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh as blue sparks erupted all over Quinn's clothing.

"B," Santana said quickly, throwing Quinn a look that clearly meant something along the lines of  _Call down lightning and I will push you off this mountain,_  "she just means we can't have reached Cali this fast by walking."

"Oh," Brittany answered. They started down the stone steps, Laelaps leading the way. "So how did we?"

"Maybe Quinn used her forest magic," Finn said in an undertone. He ducked as a gust of wind blew at him from nowhere, almost sending him toppling off the stairs.

"I trust that's enough reminder not to insult our suspect," Rachel said, careful to keep her voice low. They couldn't afford to fall off a mountain; after all, no one had ever saved the world by lying broken at the bottom of a cliff.

Finn nodded, nervously patting down his hair. They both let out a sigh of relief as they reached the bottom step. The stairs had taken them to a nice, flat parking lot - still high up, but at least none of them were likely to tumble to their deaths if Quinn ever decided to blast them with wind again.

Rachel smoothed out her skirt and looked around. Several paths branched out from the lot, all of them disappearing into the trees. A sign stood close by. It took her a few minutes to decipher, but once she did -- "Mount Diablo State Park Summit Museum. Closed for safety reasons." -- she almost rolled her eyes. Leave it to them to pick a potentially dangerous place to  _explore._

"What's that?" Finn said, pointing at a plume of smoke rising high above the treetops.

"Safety reasons," Santana drawled, rolling her eyes. She considered the smoke for a moment and added, "We should check it out."

"I  _said_  no more detours," Quinn cut in. Brittany opened her mouth, and she held up her hand. "I'm only going to say this once, Britt. I'm  _not_  a woodland creature. I don't care if there's a fire."

"I believe your utter disregard for the environment has just made Al Gore cry," Rachel countered, narrowing her eyes. As far as she was concerned, what she'd just heard was an incriminating statement if ever there was one. "We need to - "

"- go find Thanatos," Quinn said, nudging Laelaps with her foot. She turned to them and smirked. Rachel could only look on in horror as the dog barked and shot off into the woods.

*

Their only consolation was that, by the time they realized where they were going, Quinn had started looking horrified too.

Laelaps scampered over tree roots and dried leaves, heading straight for the source of the smoke. Through the branches, Rachel could glimpse the solid gray column, growing thicker as they approached. She crossed her fingers, hoping that Thanatos was somehow holding a covert barbecue party in the forest.

Unfortunately, what they stumbled upon was something much worse than a barbecue grill. The clearing was about the size of a football field, its edges littered with logs and trees torn up by the roots. They crouched behind a stack of fallen pines; Finn was gaping so much, Brittany had to pull him back before he impaled himself on pine needles.

In the middle of the barren expanse, a purple bonfire roared, huge enough to roast whole cows with. Standing over the flames, chanting fervently under its breath, was either a mobile, armor-clad hill or the biggest monster Rachel had ever seen. It towered over them, the ends of its matted dreadlocks hanging far above the tallest treetop. It carried a spear the size of a radio tower antenna, and through the soot covering its muscled arms, she could just make out its skin - bronze, like the breastplate strapped across its chest.

The ground shook as the giant circled the fire. Brittany gasped when they caught sight of its legs: two scaly green pillars, easily thicker than any of the trees around them. Instead of feet, it had huge, gleaming claws - the kind that Rachel had only ever envisioned on dragons. Every now and then it would stop and dip the tip of its spear into the flames, making the metal glow an ominous red.

"Holy crap," Finn muttered.

Rachel stared up at the monster, her heart hammering. She was pretty sure that when no one could even harp on Finn for opening his mouth, it was time to be scared witless.

"Okay, listen up," Quinn hissed, crouching lower as she turned to them. "We're going to circle around - "

"I volunteer Bigfoot and Frodo for distraction," Santana said. Rachel briefly considered stabbing her with an arrow, but decided against it. What with their proximity to the giant, any kind of loud noise would ensure that they'd all die with her anyway.

"We're going to circle  _far_ around," Quinn continued, rolling her eyes, "and maybe then we can get to wherever the Labyrinth is without getting stomped into pancakes."

"But why would anyone want to step on pancakes?" Brittany asked, looking genuinely confused.

Quinn shook her head and tapped Laelaps, hunkered down beside her. Slowly, cautiously, they started edging away from the clearing.  
Rachel chanced one last glance at the giant. It stood with its back to them, still holding its spear over the fire. For a moment, she almost believed they would escape without being detected.

Then she figured she should've known better than to jinx it. The giant stiffened, straightening up. A long, low rumble seemed to run through the ground - and then a voice boomed out over the mountainside.

"I sense you, demigods!"

"Run!" Quinn yelled, but the giant was already whipping around - and it was breathing fire.

*

It went without saying that a forest was not the best place to confront a pyromaniac monster.

Rachel threw herself to the ground as white-hot flames scorched the air just above her head, turning the nearest trees into incredibly leafy firewood. She glimpsed Quinn scrambling to her feet. Close by, Laelaps howled as he dodged a falling branch.

Loud clicking burst out all around them. Ants streamed out from behind the flaming tree trunks - giant ants, all of them bigger than Laelaps, their bodies the color of fresh blood. They advanced slowly, pincers snapping in a concerted rhythm.

"What the hell," Santana exclaimed, activating her spear. "When did this quest get  _supersized?"_

They backed away, the ants pressing in from all sides, driving them inch by inch towards the clearing. Rachel looked over her shoulder. The giant was waiting patiently by the bonfire, smirking at them like they were the long-anticipated centerpieces of his murderous mountainside barbecue party.

"What's this?" the giant said, bringing the butt of his spear down on the ground so hard, the whole mountain shook. "Children of the prophecy, out on a quest?"

Well, obviously not  _long-anticipated._  They stumbled to a stop at the very edge of the clearing, the ants scattering to close off the barren expanse. The giant bent down to examine them. His face looked half-formed, the angles of his cheeks and jaw twisted crudely. He stared them down with eyes that glowed a solid white, and as his hair swung down over his shoulders, Rachel saw that it was woven with bones.

"Have your parents sent you out as sacrifices?" he boomed, inspecting Brittany. Almost automatically, Santana flung her spear out in front of her. The giant laughed. "I thought not. Even  _they_  know better than to try and buy mercy from Enceladus."

 _"Enchilada?"_  Santana spat. "Seriously? Your great villain name was ripped out of a Taco Bell menu?"

"I had enchiladas once," Brittany added. "But they were smaller than you."

Enceladus stared at them, as if debating whether or not to flatten them right then. Slowly, he shifted his gaze to a growling Laelaps; Finn, who drew an arrow; then Quinn, who was surrounded by so many blue sparks she looked like a live firework.

Rachel swallowed nervously when he turned his blank eyes on her.

"And you are certainly smaller than expected," he rumbled, drawing so close Rachel could see the layers of ash trapped between his teeth. She stumbled back, the heat from the forest fire searing her skin.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, little half-blood." Enceladus smirked. "You still have your part to play. These other puny godlings, on the other hand - "

"You've said enough," Quinn growled, stepping forward and drawing her sickle-sword.

"Such wrath! Are you hiding something, daughter of Zeus?"

"Please," Quinn scoffed, the lie making Rachel's stomach do an all-too-familiar flip. "The only thing that needs hiding here is your face."

Enceladus laughed. "My face! Then answer me this, demigod."

He straightened up, pounding on the ground with his spear. A wave of force surged through the earth, sending all of them sprawling. The sound of a thousand snapping pincers filled the air.

"What do you expect me to do with your corpses?"

All at once, a sea of bloodred ants swarmed into the clearing. Rachel staggered to her feet, gaping in amazement as the ants swerved around her. She whirled around, Enceladus' laughter ringing in her ears as she searched for the others. For a terrifying second, there was nothing there but a solid block of red - and then, behind her, she heard something flying through the air.

"Heads up, Rach!"

Rachel turned, just in time to catch her bow and quiver. Finn grinned at her, barely even pausing as he fired arrow after arrow. Beside him, a flash of silver cut through the air. Quinn broke through the ranks, the air around her crackling as she charged straight for Enceladus.

The giant opened his mouth wide.

"Q, you idiot!" Santana yelled, racing full-pelt through the sea of ants.  _"Duck!"_

She leapt forward, tackling Quinn to the ground. The fire missed them by inches. It razed a clear line through the swarm, leaving yellow dust and cinders in its wake.

The snapping grew louder, angrier: more ants streamed in to fill the gaps. Rachel dove to the side as one threw itself at her, pincers nearly ripping off her face. Pain ripped through her leg as it latched onto her ankle; over the sound of her own scream, she could hear Enceladus roaring -  _"Not the girl!"_

She kicked wildly at the monster, warm blood spilling down her foot with each blow. Her shoulder screamed as she rolled onto her back, straining to notch an arrow - but before she could even fire, vines erupted out of the ground, curling around her attacker and crushing it to a pulp.

"Are you okay?" Brittany wheezed, swatting more ants away with her vines. Rachel nodded, gritting her teeth as she cast around for another target. She spotted Laelaps close by, pinned beneath a mass of red; one after another, her arrows whistled through the air, piercing through the monsters and showering the dog with dust.

"Britt!" Quinn called, lurching back onto her feet. "Take the ants!"

She hauled Santana up, and with a practiced synchrony that could only have come from years of training under one Sue Sylvester, they sprang into action. Santana darted left, dodging the point of Enceladus' spear as it came crashing down to earth.

Enceladus reared up, his teeth glowing as he primed another blast of fire - and Quinn came sprinting from behind him, slashing fiercely through his dragon-scale hide. Golden blood streamed down his legs.

The ants stopped swarming. As one, they turned around - and charged Enceladus in droves. Quinn leapt out of the way as they latched onto the giant's legs, stabbing into his flesh like they were trying to dig something out. Enceladus howled, swivelling around and spewing flames.

The logs heaped around the clearing ignited. Rachel ducked her head, shielding her face. Brittany knelt beside her, coughing. Heat slammed into them from all sides. Far above, clouds of smoke blotted out the sky.

"Q!" Santana called, the red point of her spear a faint light in the haze.

A gust of wind blew over them; for a split-second, the air was clear. Rachel saw Santana somersault clean over a column of ants, landing hard on Enceladus' foot. She raised her spear and drove it deep through the green scales.

The giant roared in anger, stomping craters into the ground, trying to shake her off. Santana yanked her spear out, raising it for another strike; Enceladus kicked out -  _hard_  - and smoke clouded Rachel's vision just as Santana went flying.

"San," Brittany gasped.

The vines around them thrashed wildly, whipping scores of ants into a rain of yellow dust. Rachel struggled to get up, to hold Brittany back - but her mangled ankle buckled beneath her. Brittany sprinted out of her reach and disappeared into the smog.

Overhead, the air shook with the roar of thunder. Wind swept through the clearing. Rachel craned her neck; through the thinning smoke, she saw Enceladus, white eyes blazing. She notched an arrow and aimed - but then she saw her. Hovering in front of the giant, pale and bloodied, her silver sword outstretched, was Quinn.

"Are you volunteering, girl?" Enceladus laughed. "The daughter of Zeus! A fitting first sacrifice!"

He opened his mouth wide, his teeth glowing like embers. Rachel fired.

Enceladus turned, eyes wide with surprise - and the arrow sank into a sea of white, sending gold blood rushing down his face. He yelped, clapping a hand over his eye. "Fool! You will not be spared for this!"

"Do it!" Rachel yelled, notching another arrow. Quinn gaped down at her, momentarily stunned. "Whatever you're planning, do it now!"

She let the arrow loose. It flew through Enceladus' fingers, drawing blood. He staggered back, and lightning surged from the sky. A boom like a thousand cannons broke through the air, throwing Rachel flat onto her back. She shook her head, dazed; far to her left, she could hear Quinn groaning.

She hauled herself back up, gritting her teeth as she limped to where Quinn lay sprawled and panting on the ground. Smoke closed in around them; the very air seemed to ripple with the heat of the burning trees.

"You're kind of - a jinx - Manhands," Quinn wheezed. Rachel scowled, bending over her and pressing her fingers to Quinn's neck. She could barely feel her pulse.

"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't insisted on - " Rachel stopped, glancing up. Quinn met her gaze with unfocused eyes. Guilt stabbed through her chest; all of her accusations seemed to have stuck in her throat.

"Impressive!"

Rachel twisted around. Enceladus marched through the smoke, the very picture of  _frustratingly unharmed._ The ants still swarmed around his feet, but there were no wounds there. A chill ran down Rachel's spine as he drew closer. There were no wounds on him at all.

"But I cannot be killed by demigods," he boomed, hefting his spear. "What a shame, daughter of Apollo. You would have done so well for our cause."

Rachel reached for an arrow, but her mind seemed to have shut down. Her heart sank as she stared up at the giant. They were out of options. Even if she could hit him, it wouldn't have made a difference - he would heal, and they would get ripped apart.

Enceladus drew his arm back, the point of his spear aimed straight for them. And then a howl broke through the silence.

Laelaps rammed headfirst into the giant's legs. Enceladus faltered, caught off guard. Before he could even regain his bearings, vines burst out of the ground and strapped themselves across his spear. He tried to wrench it away - but the vines held, and with a snap like a gunshot, the weapon broke into a thousand pieces. Shards cut through the air, punching clean through his breastplate.

Enceladus reared back, roaring in pain. Thick streams of gold blood spilled down his chest. Frenzied snapping filled the air as the ants tore at him, fiercer than ever.

"I apologize for the impropriety," Rachel said quickly, yanking Quinn up by the front of her shirt, "but we have to go."

She slung Quinn's arm over her shoulders and surged up onto her feet. Pain ripped through her bloodied ankle; Quinn slumped against her side, weighing down each agonizing step. Rachel gritted her teeth, squinting through the heat and smoke.

A shudder ran through the clearing. Cracks spread around Enceladus' feet; the ground started crumbling beneath him. Ants slipped through the growing chasms, clicking and flailing. Enceladus threw his head back, his laughter shaking the whole mountain.

Brittany came charging out from behind him, swinging Santana's spear as she leapt over fissure after fissure; Finn raced after her, swatting ants out of the way with his bow. Thrown haphazardly over his shoulder - Rachel had no doubt he would be beaten for it later,  _if_  there was a later - was a barely-conscious Santana, blood dripping down the side of her face.

"Find the Labyrinth!" Finn yelled desperately as Laelaps ran towards them. The dog didn't even bother barking; he shot past them, straight into the burning woods.

"Run, little heroes!" Enceladus boomed. "Run and tell the gods!" He blew blast after blast of white-hot flames; Rachel felt blisters erupt all over her back as they stumbled through the trees.

"There!" Finn pointed frantically. A huge pine rose up ahead, its branches laden with fire. Etched into the bark was a small ∆, glowing an electric blue. Finn slapped his hand on it. A gaping hole opened up between the tree's roots. Laelaps dove in - and with one last glance at the raging furnace all around her, Rachel steeled herself and followed.

*

They barely stopped to rest. Suffocating heat followed them along the tunnel, as though Enceladus had razed it for good measure.  
Brittany fell back to help Rachel, easing Quinn from her with a pointed glance at her ankle. Rachel limped after her, unsure what to say. She could still remember the faint beat of Quinn's pulse against her skin. For a moment, watching Brittany half-drag her along the passage, she wondered if it was so wrong, to want to get back at a father who asked for so much and gave so little.

They trudged on in silence, Rachel powering through the relentless throbbing in her foot. The sole of her shoe was slick with blood, but one look at the others and she lost all inclination to complain. At the very least, she could still walk.

The sound of Brittany's labored breathing floated down the corridor. Every now and then she would glance back at Santana, her face losing a little more color each time. Rachel tried to give her a reassuring smile, but she stopped when Brittany stared at her, blue eyes clouded with fear.

She knew the feeling. The mere thought of it made her stomach churn with guilt, but right then, she was thankful Thanatos was gone. From the looks of things, that was the only reason Mount Diablo hadn't turned into a funeral pyre for Quinn and Santana.

"What do you think he was talking about?" Finn asked in a low voice, his words echoing along the walls. He glanced at Rachel's ankle and grimaced. "He said we were children of some prophecy."

"It will be fine, Finn," Rachel said wearily. "As for your question, we are technically  _children_  embarking on a quest, and from what I can tell, all quests start with a prophecy."

"It sounded like a different one," Finn insisted. He frowned at her. "And what was that he said about you? Some kind of part - "

Rachel shook her head. She didn't know what part Enceladus had expected her to play; all she knew was that she was tired of being cast. The only roles she'd ever been interested in were on Broadway, not some cosmic chessboard - and she hadn't even auditioned for either.

"What do you think, Britt?"

Finn glanced hopefully at her, but Brittany wasn't listening. She stood frozen, watching as Laelaps barked and pawed at the wall. They crowded around him, muttering in confusion - then Rachel saw the mark on the stones: A blue ∆.

"Is this it?" Finn asked incredulously, eyeing the symbol like it could explode at any second. "We've found Thanatos?"

Brittany reached out and pressed a finger against the rock. They jumped back as the ceiling slid open. Fresh, clean air drifted into the   
tunnel; stone steps extended from the wall, leading up. Through the hole in the roof, Rachel could see stars, shining bright in the clear night sky.

"I think Quinn used her forest magic again," Brittany said, looking up.

"Yeah," Finn said. He shifted Santana slightly, wincing. "How long have we been walking?"

"Not long enough," Rachel answered. She drew a breath, trying not to think of the agony that climbing the stairs would bring. "I believe, if I might be so clichéd about it, that there's no way to go now but up."

As if in answer, Laelaps barked and bounded up the stones. Rachel frowned, glancing uncertainly at the other two as they climbed. She was sure she could hear the sound of hurried footsteps. The flickering light of torches spilled onto the top steps. The air seemed to hum with anticipation.

They emerged from an outcrop of rock - and all around them, helmets glinting in the moonlight, a ring of armored warriors drew their swords.

In the distance, a conch horn blew.


	14. A Camp Is Not A Home A

The last thing she expected to see was Bugs Bunny on a war helm.

Rachel stared as one of the soldiers stepped forward, his face covered by a helmet shaped like a particularly vicious rabbit. For a moment, she wondered if it was the blood loss. An ambush had never been out of the question, but she didn't think any of them had ever considered the possibility of being cornered by a rabid Looney Tunes character – let alone one armed with something deadlier than a carrot.

"Drop the bow," the soldier said, pointing his sword at her. "Drop the bow,  _now."_

In the silence that followed, the only thing that dropped was Rachel's jaw. It was the blood loss, she decided, shaking her head. It  _had_  to be the blood loss, because there was no way the murderous bunny had spoken in the voice of her old head counselor.

 _"Mike?"_ Finn asked incredulously, squinting. "Mike, is that you?"

"Shut up, zombie!" another soldier growled from somewhere behind them. "Mike, dude, don't listen to the undead."

"They might not be undead," someone else chimed in. "Undeath takes away your soul, not your fashion sense."

 _"Puck?"_  Rachel whirled around, biting back a cry as pain ripped through her foot.  _"Kurt?"_

Brittany laid a steadying hand on her arm. Under any other circumstances, she would've been amazed by the upper body strength needed to support her and Quinn, but right then, Rachel didn't have the awe to spare: One by one, the surrounding soldiers were lowering their swords.

She knew they'd spent far too much time with Laelaps when Finn all but barked in excitement.

"Dudes, it's us!" he said, nearly throwing Santana off his shoulder as he wiped the soot off his face. He looked around, grinning wide. The soldiers exchanged looks. Rachel had all of two seconds to wonder how much they could communicate from behind their helmets--and then they threw down their weapons and charged.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Mike demanded, tossing his helm away as he waded through the mess of people crowding around them. His eyes widened as he drew closer. "Are those Quinn and Santana?"

"Oh my gods," Kurt said, yanking his helmet off his head. He gingerly brushed a strand of hair from Quinn's face. "Did all that argyle finally get you attacked by a band of angry harpies?"

"I resent that accusation," Rachel said automatically. 

She stopped, gaping as Kurt turned to look at her. He raised an eyebrow, as disapproving as he'd been after that one ambush with the wardrobe questionnaire -- and the reality of his presence hit her like a slushie to the face. She looked around, dazed, taking in the trees, the armor-clad people, the faintest scent of strawberries in the air.

They were back in camp.

"We shouldn't be here," she muttered in disbelief, casting around for Laelaps. The dog crouched a little off to the side, sniffing the ground like being in Camp Half-Blood was the most natural thing in the world. "We shouldn't –  _we shouldn't be here."_

"Damn straight," Puck said, jarring her out of her thoughts. He edged past Brittany and hooked an arm around Rachel's waist, scoffing when she tried to push him away. "Relax, the Puckasaurus doesn't hit on the wounded."

He lifted her up a little, just enough to ease the weight off her ankle. "We need to get these chicks to the infirmary."

Mike nodded and turned to the rest of their group, slipping a bronze canary out of his pocket. "Keep patrolling, and if you guys see anything, contact us."

The others murmured in agreement and slipped back into the trees. Mike watched them go, back rigid and eyes narrowed, like he was just waiting for something to go wrong. Guilt welled up within Rachel; she hadn't even considered what kind of trouble they must have caused him by sneaking out of camp.

It was almost a relief when he turned back to them, the weariness fading from his face; he gave Brittany a reassuring smile as he helped lower Santana into Finn's arms. Kurt sighed and adjusted his armor, muttering something about ill-fitting straps. Draping Quinn's free arm over his shoulders, he and Brittany led them out of the woods.

Camp looked drastically different from what Rachel remembered. Tiny pinpricks of light flickered in the distance: clusters of fire, no doubt carried by more campers roaming the grounds. The air felt still, fragile - like the whole place was holding its breath, bracing itself for some impending catastrophe. Darkness covered the valley. If it weren't for the torches Puck and Mike held aloft, Rachel was fairly certain she would've limped her way to a black eye in seconds.

"Um, is it just me," Finn said uncertainly, "or did a power switch blow out or something?"

"Coach's orders," Puck answered. "We've been DEFCON One since Jesse finally kicked the bucket."

"Wait, what?" Rachel asked, squinting through the glare of the torchlight. "What do you mean, 'kicked the bucket'?"

"He disappeared right after you did," Mike said. He shot them an uneasy glance, as if he expected them to vanish at any second.

Finn's mouth fell open. "What? How?"

"Coach Sylvester sent the head counselors to scout the woods," Kurt piped up, glancing over his shoulder at Finn. He gave Quinn a gentle nudge. "After these three left for the quest. Fortunately or unfortunately, Jesse was probably consumed by his own cosmic black hole of an ego, and he never came back."

"I didn't know Jesse was a cannibal," Brittany said quietly. They all stopped in their tracks; Rachel glanced at the others, unsure how to respond.

"Okay!" Kurt finally said, voice shrill with forced cheer. He clapped his hands. "That was a week ago." 

Rachel started to protest -- there was no way they'd been gone a  _week_  already, and she was fully prepared to hunt for a calendar to prove her point -- but he held a finger up to stop her. "Patrols, however, are still eating into my beauty sleep, because Sandy's gone too."

Just like that, all thoughts of calendar-hunting vanished from Rachel's mind.

"Who's Sandy?" she said, frowning. The name sounded vaguely familiar; she was sure she'd heard it before.

"Satyr," Mike supplied, grimacing as he added, "If you ever run into a Josh Groban shrine in the woods, that's probably his."

"Didn't he go to Canada?" Finn paused, his brows scrunching together. "Wait, he left ages ago, right? Like, before Rach even got here."

"The week before, to be exact. I still don't know if that was a fair trade," Kurt added, raising an eyebrow as he looked over Rachel's tattered clothes. "Anyway, just yesterday we got a message from the nymphs in Quebec asking where he was."

"Dude never got there." Puck lowered his voice, looking around furtively as they continued walking. "Turns out the last place anyone actually saw him was the woods."

Finn's eyes widened; he twisted around, peering back at the trees as if he was afraid they would actually come and eat him. Rachel sighed, fixing her gaze on the back of Quinn's head. As irrational as it was, she couldn't help but hope that somehow, if she only stared long enough, she'd finally figure out what was going on in there.

Right then, it was about the only thing she could bank on. The few bits of Quinn's plan that she thought she'd figured out had pretty much become the equivalent of Mr. Schue's rapping career: horribly wrong. Not once in a million years did she expect to end up back in camp; the fact that it was  _Laelaps_  who led them there only made it all the more jarring.

She wondered if Quinn had put him up to it, or if Thanatos really  _had_  been there, picking off people in the woods. Either way, all signs pointed to more complicated machinations than she'd anticipated. She could feel her head start to spin, and it definitely wasn't the blood loss.

It also wasn't the pantsless man clopping towards them. Rachel watched, horrified, as the satyr came barrelling down the front steps of the Big House. Even in the dark, the vest and hair were unmistakable. She ducked her head as Mr. Schue came to a stop in front of them, pawing the ground with his hooves.

*

It really would have been better if ambrosia worked on uncomfortable silences.

Rachel sat on her old infirmary bed, staring at her bandaged foot and acutely aware of Mr. Schue watching her as she chewed on a brownie. He didn't say anything. Then again, he didn't need to: she could sense the disappointment rolling off him in waves. Between that and the guilt crashing over her, Rachel felt dangerously close to drowning.

"I'm - I'm so sorry, Mr. Schuester," she whispered.

She could barely manage to get the words out. Each word seemed to steal away what little strength the ambrosia gave, and the simple act of raising her head sent her reeling. Finn awkwardly laid his hand on her shoulder. She felt him fidget beside her when Mr. Schue shook his head and turned away.

Guilt surged through Rachel as she followed his gaze. Brittany sat by Santana's bedside, biting her lip and looking about ready to faint. Her hands shook as she held Santana's hair back, and she let out the smallest of sobs as Emma cleaned out the gaping wound with her array of antiseptics. Santana's fingers twitched with every dab of disinfectant; at the very least, they were sure that she wouldn't wake up a vegetable.

It was little comfort, though, when they weren't even sure if someone else would wake up at all. Quinn lay motionless on the bed beside Santana's, hands folded over her stomach and face pale, almost as if she'd been stuck in a funeral home instead of an infirmary. It didn't help that the person treating her -- Terri, if Rachel remembered right -- kept trying to make it happen.

"If we give her enough, she'll burst into flames," she announced, shoveling ambrosia into Quinn's mouth. "It's much more practical. Do you really want the other kids hunting for firewood when they could be prepping for slaughter?"

"Terri - " Mr. Schue began, but whatever reproachful words he might have had were lost in the slam of the door.

"WHERE ARE THEY?" Coach Sylvester bellowed, marching in with a ferocity that put rampaging dragons to shame. "Where are my half-breeds?"

She stopped and scanned the room. Rachel braced herself, half-expecting the coach to start throwing bedpans -- but the moment her shoulders slumped, she knew that there were no projectiles coming. All the anger had gone from Coach Sylvester's face. She stood stricken, her mouth hanging open as if she couldn't register what she was seeing.

Brittany's sniffles broke the silence.

"It was the enchilada," she said, grimacing as Emma started stitching up Santana's scalp. "We fought the enchilada in California."

"Enceladus," Rachel corrected. She didn't know if Brittany heard her; she could barely hear herself.

"That's right," Finn chimed in. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "It was the Enchiladus guy, the giant."

Coach Sylvester stared at them like they'd all grown second heads.

"What giant?" Mr. Schue said warily, stepping closer.

Rachel shifted in her seat. If there was ever a "What happens in the Labyrinth stays in the Labyrinth" rule, she figured it was the time to invoke it. There were only so many ways to tell their story, and none of those would save their listeners from further disappointment -- let alone any of them from further guilt. Brittany watched her, waiting, but before she could even struggle to open her mouth again, Finn patted her arm and stepped in.

"I'll do it," he said in a low voice. Winking, he added, "I was there too, you know."

Considering  _how_  Finn came to be there, their audience didn't take that joke too well. Mr. Schue frowned and folded his arms as Finn launched into the story: all the way from Rachel eavesdropping (she hung her head as Mr. Schue turned to look at her) to their ending up in camp, fudging their motives and butchering more names as he went.

Rachel took it as a bad sign that Coach Sylvester didn't hurl a single insult. She took it as an even worse sign when she started exchanging looks with Mr. Schue halfway through Finn's retelling. Their expressions went from frowns to knit brows to mouths pressed into grim lines; by the time Finn had finished fretting about the possibility of flesh-eating trees, both of their faces had become quite unreadable.

Coach Sylvester turned to look at her prized head counselors, her gaze softening the slightest bit. For a moment, Rachel wondered if she regretted sending them out at all. Then she straightened up, glare firmly back in place, and grabbed Finn by the collar.

"Well, Hudson," she said, practically dragging Finn to the door, "if there's anything to take from that less-than-heartwarming anecdote of yours, it's that your little scrap heap in Eleven needs moving."

"But - " Finn spluttered. Rachel never heard the rest; they disappeared down the corridor, and soon enough the only thing left was the echo of the front door as it slammed shut.

She was thankful Mr. Schue had a less violent approach.

"I'd like to speak with you outside," he said quietly.

A faint hiss of pain filled the room. Santana's eyes cracked open as Emma scooped more ambrosia into her mouth; the smile spreading across Brittany's face all but rendered the lights unnecessary. Rachel turned to look at Quinn, but her rising hopes were tamped down almost as fast as they came: despite the color creeping back into her cheeks, Quinn lay as still as ever.

"Rachel?" Mr. Schue said. "Outside, please."

She nodded absently and slid off the bed, careful not to place any weight on her bandaged foot. Mr. Schue took her by the arm and guided her through the door. He paused, scanning the corridor for a moment before steering her towards the staircase.

They settled themselves on the bottom step. Rachel shifted in her seat; it felt like ages since she'd watched Quinn climb those same steps to meet the Oracle. She finished the rest of her ambrosia, waiting as the strength crept back into her limbs.

"Can I ask you something?" Mr. Schue said, clasping his hands together and keeping his eyes trained on the wall opposite. "What do you think you've accomplished by going on this quest?"

The question hit her like a punch to the gut. They were no closer to finding Thanatos, unless their near-death experiences counted; all the time spent in the Labyrinth had ended in nothing but an unexpected return to camp. Unless Thanatos turned out to be hiding undercover as a camper, it was hard to deny that they really hadn't accomplished anything at all -- and she was just another Apollo camper still.

"Would you count the increased endurance?" she said tentatively, wincing. "We seem to have spent most of our time running for our lives."

Mr. Schue sighed. Rachel stared at him; sitting there, hunched over with his eyes closed, he looked older than she'd ever seen him.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Mr. Schue," she finally said, turning away. "You keep telling me to wait, but I don't know what you want me to keep waiting for."

She thought of Finn and all those years he'd spent waiting to be claimed. She didn't think she could ever wait that long, kept in the dark -- just another clueless Apollo child, waiting for an epiphany to happen at some appointed time that no one ever told her about.

"Finn had a different symbol," she continued, the words starting to build up within her like a dam threatening to burst. "When he was claimed. The giant, Enceladus -- he said I had a part to play."

"Emma said you hoped I wouldn't be Apollo." She took a deep, shuddering breath; she could still remember the blazing, golden sun. The confusion, the frustration, the sadness -- all of it surged to the forefront, sweeping everything away in an overwhelming flood.  _"Why?"_

Mr. Schue shook his head helplessly.

"You  _know,"_ Rachel pressed on, leaning closer, willing him to say something—anything, even a lie. Even that would be answer enough. "You  _know_  what's going on, don't you?"

She stared at him, waiting for the familiar flip of the stomach as he shook his head. He couldn't be telling the truth, he  _couldn't_ , and all of the clues agreed with her—but her senses didn't. Mr. Schue watched her carefully, as if he wasn't sure that she'd believe him—as if he were waiting for her to call whatever bluff he was probably making.

The fact that she couldn't was just an added insult. All of her anger trickled away, carving out a hollowness within her as it went. She couldn't even figure out lies now. So much for those being enough.

"Everyone's acting like there's something more to all this—like there's something more to  _me_ —but I have nothing to show for it." Rachel bit her lip, keeping her gaze fixed on her shoes. Her words barely made it through the silence. "I don't have my voice anymore, Mr. Schue. I don't have answers. I don't have anything."

It wasn't an admission she wanted to make. If Mr. Schue's sigh was any indication, it wasn't one he wanted to hear either.

"Look, Rachel," he finally said, pressing his fingers to his temples. "I know that it's been hard for you, especially after you were claimed. And I understand why you're so bent on finding answers, but you didn't have to go on that quest.”

Rachel looked at him. The conviction in his voice seemed so absurd to her. He didn't know what she knew, and the knowledge of her dreams rested heavy on her shoulders. Finn had said that Mr. D made them go, and from the way Mr. Schue rested his head against his hands, he'd believed it -- but Rachel was tired of lying, and she was tired of running into dead ends.

"Yes, I did."

Mr. Schue lifted his head, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?"

"I had to go on the quest."

"Rachel," Mr. Schue said cautiously, "what are you talking about?"

For a split-second, she hesitated. After all the time he spent depriving her of solos in glee club, Mr. Schue didn't exactly strike her as a man of reliable judgment. But glee club had been reduced to a hazy snapshot of a choir room that she could somehow only remember in sepia, and Lima itself had turned into a place both distant and foreign, buried under prophecies and Labyrinths and the end of the world.

Rachel took a deep breath, and everything came pouring out in a torrent of rushed sentences: the dreams, the earthen woman,  _Quinn._ Quinn and her plan to pit the gods against each other. Quinn and her plan to get back at her father.

Mr. Schue took it better than expected. He gaped at her as if she'd just set fire to his extensive collection of vests – which, considering what she'd told him, was an altogether appropriate reaction. At the very least, she wasn't being sent back to the infirmary in a straitjacket.

"I - I have to tell Sue," he choked out, staggering to his feet.

"Wait, Mr. Schuester," Rachel began, confused. She made to get up, but he wheeled around, eyes alight with the kind of fire that would've gotten him a straitjacket of his own.

"Stay here, do you hear me?" he said, pointing wildly at her. "Stay here and -- "

The shrill blast of a conch horn pierced the air. Mr. Schue jumped and looked up, his face twisted in a look of utter terror.

"What's going on?" Rachel demanded, grabbing hold of the banister and hauling herself up. Pain shot through her ankle.

"Hades," Mr. Schue muttered, stumbling back against the wall. "He must've found out Quinn was here." He looked at her, his gaze distant, as if half his mind had already flown somewhere else. "Stay here. No matter what happens,  _stay here."_

Rachel stared at him, but before she could even try to figure out what was going on, he'd hurtled back down the corridor and out the front door.


	15. A Camp Is Not A Home B

Of course, the worst thing to do in a war zone was to  _stay there._

Rachel gritted her teeth, bracing herself for the long, painful walk back to the infirmary. Whatever flash of revelation Mr. Schue had gotten, it obviously didn't enlighten him on the importance of survival. Frantic shouts and inhuman howls filled the air, drawing closer to the Big House. Clearly, Hades' monsters were out for blood – and crazed warnings or not, Rachel was in no way inclined to make a donation.

Judging from the voices streaming down the hall, she wasn't the only one.

" – no, I am not letting you three walk out of here – half of Santana's brain is hanging out and Quinn's practically been disemboweled –"

Rachel froze, her hand clamping down on the banister to hold herself steady. It was like the world had been put on a strange kind of mute. There was no screaming, no howling, no horde of monsters running around outside and trying to eat her friends – just Emma's words floating in a jumble through her mind, over and over again.

Considering her dyslexia, it was really kind of insulting.

Then something clicked, a little thought snatched from the mess inside her head: Quinn was awake. Quinn was  _awake,_  and for one inexplicable moment, as the dizzying rush of relief took over, that was all she needed to hear.

Unfortunately, the infirmary door seemed to have missed that memo. Rachel jumped as it flew open, swinging with so much force it could've rocketed out of its hinges.

"I'm sure Hades would love to make it worse," said a voice that could only have been Quinn's, barely audible over Terri's incoherent stream of death threats. "So we'll take our chances."

Ice filled Rachel's veins. She stood rooted to the spot, her heart hammering in her throat. All at once, the rest of Emma's words fell into place.  _I'm not letting you three walk out of here._

As if on cue, Santana staggered out into the hall, the bandages on her head and the scowl on her face making her look like the critically injured version of a murderous Karate Kid. She powered through a few pained steps, but whatever burst of strength she was running on, it clearly wasn't enough to send her high-kicking into the fray. She stopped halfway to the front door, throwing her hand out and leaning hard against the wall.

If it weren't for the alarm bells ringing in her head, Rachel would've been relieved when Brittany came sprinting out to help.

"You weren't supposed to go that fast," she said, wrapping an arm around Santana's waist and drawing her close. "What if your brain fell out?"

"I'm fine," Santana said, trying to take another step. Even from a distance, the lie made Rachel's insides twist. "Where's Q?"

"Here."

Or maybe that was entirely Quinn's fault.

Rachel's grip tightened around the banister as Quinn limped out of the infirmary. She'd fixed up her ponytail, blonde hair pulled back from her face in a style that was almost jaunty. Faint wisps of smoke curled off her skin – no doubt Terri _did_  try to push through with the ambrosia overdose – and in her hands she held an orange camp jacket. She pulled it on, white lettering splaying across her back like an advertisement: "CAMP HALF-BLOOD. RAISING RECKLESS HEROES SINCE 500 B.C."

Under any other circumstances, she might have looked like a cheerleader again. As it was, the bright orange was a stark contrast to her pallid face, and the ponytail did nothing but hammer home the point: Quinn Fabray had turned into a walking ghost.

Not literally, of course, but close enough.

"Do you remember where the entrance is, Britt?" she said, fishing her flashlight from her pocket. It morphed into her silver sickle-sword.

"Zeus' Fist," Brittany said with a nod. She started leading Santana to the front door, Quinn shuffling along beside them. "Laelaps stayed there, too."

The words echoed in Rachel's head, but it wasn't Brittany's voice she heard there.  _Zeus' Fist._  Jesse St. James' breathless declaration rose like a warning from the depths of her memory – and right on its heels, sending an all too real ache spreading through her chest, came the image of another lost camper: the very first one.

Quinn opened the door, stepping out into the chaos that lay beyond the darkened porch. Brittany and Santana disappeared after her – and Rachel made to follow, but even as she stepped towards the door, Matt Rutherford's empty eyes seemed to stare at her from the shadows, as sharp and clear and real as they'd been the night he was found.

* 

She didn't have time to untie Terri and Emma.

The two of them sat arguing on the floor of the infirmary, held fast by tangles of grapevines. Rachel shot them an apologetic look as she stumbled past, scooping up the bow and quiver heaped at the foot of her bed.

"R-Rachel?" Emma gaped at her, eyes dangerously close to popping out of their sockets. "You're not – you can't – are you -"

She nodded, slinging the quiver over her shoulder and trying to ignore the guilt threatening to well up within her again. It wasn't just the fact that she was leaving Terri and Emma tied up like that.

Arming herself had been a jarring reminder that Finn was out there somewhere, probably fending off monsters with the other bow they'd stolen from the Apollo cabin, and chances were high that she wouldn't be able to find him, let alone say goodbye.

Then there was Mr. Schue. She could almost see the look of anger and disappointment on his face once he found out she was gone. But she didn't have the time to seek him out, and if grabbing the chance to achieve her goal meant going without her former teacher's express approval, then so be it.

She didn't have the time to turn back anymore, either.

Rachel gripped her own weapon tighter, soaking in the little reassurance it could give as she limped out of the infirmary. At the very least, she still had that sense of stability – as if the bow were some kind of anchor, a familiar weight in her hand that told her she wouldn't be swept away.

Which was a good thing, considering the wave of pure pandemonium that engulfed her the minute she ran out onto the porch. Rachel skidded to a stop, her mouth falling open.

Black hounds the size of rhinos leaped out of the shadows, red eyes burning with hellfire. There were at least ten of them racing all over the grounds, snapping and biting at the campers darting around their feet. The darkness seemed to bend and twist around them, and a chill ran down Rachel's spine as she realized – there were more hounds coming.

Countless voices filled the air – wounded kids calling for medics; counselors rallying their cabinmates. Bronze swords glinted in the light of the defenders' torches. Arrows flew from every direction, the archers firing so fast they would've put machine guns to shame.

By the volleyball courts, the Hephaestus kids worked furiously at a pair of catapults, sending streams of glowing jars hurtling through the sky. Shattered glass rained down on the grounds as the jars met their mark: Green flames lit up the night, eating through the hellhounds' fur and turning them into thrashing, howling torches of Greek fire.

Then she saw the jacket. It glowed orange in the distance, soaking up the light of the raging fires -- a flash of color in a sea of gleaming bronze. Quinn, Santana, and Brittany skirted around the edge of the strawberry fields, inching towards the woods.

A jolt like static ran through her, sparking a frantic, restless energy that sent her barrelling down the front steps. Rachel stumbled straight into the fray, limping towards the fields as fast as her mangled foot would allow. She pushed past a troop of Ares campers scurrying into formation; she could still catch up to the quest party, and if her luck held, she  _would._

"Woah! Where the hell are  _you_  going?"

Apparently, her luck didn't have any grip strength to speak of. She turned and found herself face to face with Puck – or, at least, face to faceplate. Through the slits in his helmet, she could see him narrow his eyes.

"I am _going_  on a time-sensitive mission," Rachel said matter-of-factly, trying to march past him. "One that you're currently interrupting. So if you'll excuse me – "

"Uh, how about no," he said flatly, blocking her path with his spear. He glanced over his shoulder. "Those monsters are gonna eat you alive, and there's no way in hell I'm hooking up with a chew toy."

"Good, because I can assure you right now that there's no way I would hook up with you in the first place."

She huffed in frustration, getting up on tiptoe and peering over his shoulder. No doubt Quinn had reached the woods by then. Maybe she'd even entered the Labyrinth. A tightness started building in her gut; she could almost see her chances of success plummeting with each passing second.

A stray jar of Greek fire sailed past them, and Puck grabbed her by the arm, yanking her away.

"Look, I know you're, like, crazy and shit," he said loudly, his voice fighting to rise above the noise, "but there's gotta be serious crap going down if you're running around like this. So talk. What the heck are you up to?"

Rachel stared at him, debating whether or not to fill him in. Her eyes strayed to the woods, far beyond the edge of the strawberry fields, and she decided she would need all the help she could get.

"I need to get to Zeus' Fist," she said. "Preferably within the next two minutes."

The second his gaze slid to the battle raging around them, his eyes alight with mischief and the faintest flicker of understanding, she knew he was going to do something stupid. Just how stupid, it didn't take long to find out.

He shot past her, swerving around campers and fires, heading straight for the nearest hellhound. He crashed through a ring of Athena kids, and the monster turned to face him, baring a row of gleaming teeth. For a moment Rachel thought he'd run right into its mouth – but then he dug his spear into the ground, and with one huge jump, he arced over the snarling pit of death and landed with a solid  _thump_  on the hellhound's head.

Rachel was fairly certain she wasn't the only one gaping.

"Yeah, baby!" Puck whooped, seizing the creature's ears as it threw its head back, trying to shake him off. He straightened up and tugged, wheeling the hound around like it was nothing but a really furry jetski.

The difference being, jetskis did  _not_  try to flatten people on instinct. Nor did they possess mouths vaguely reminiscent of possessed meat grinders. The hellhound raced towards Rachel, snarling and gnashing its teeth as if it were anxious to prove the point.

"Come on!" Puck yelled, freeing one hand and leaning over the side.

For a terrifying second, Rachel couldn't move. Then the image of an orange jacket broke through her panicked thoughts, fading fast into the shadows.

She reached out and grabbed hold.

* 

It was really kind of disturbing how fast Puck and the hellhound  _bonded._

In the minute it took to cross the grounds, the monster progressed from trying to throw them off every few seconds to crouching down at one insistent tug on its ear. Rachel wondered what that said about Puck; all she knew was that by the time he let her down at the edge of the woods nearest Zeus' Fist, he had himself a vicious pet from the Underworld named "Jackie Daniels."

She was pretty sure the return trip to the Big House would end in some kind of irreversible melding of souls. Or maybe a whirlwind marriage in some chapel in Las Vegas – which, as unsettling as it was, still seemed like a better prospect than what Rachel had in her immediate future.

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking up at Puck. She tried for a smile, but with the idea of re-entering the Labyrinth hanging over her, it came out more like a grimace.

Puck nodded, though, that faint glimmer of understanding back in his eyes again. "Just look for the giant pile of rocks that looks like deer poop."

"You totally owe me," he added, giving her a once-over and a lecherous wink for good measure. He tugged on Jackie Daniels' ears, and with one last howl from his newfound pet, he was gone.

Rachel took a deep breath and plunged straight into the woods.

It was like stepping into a bad movie flashback: Her first and last game of Capture the Flag raged somewhere in the shadows – except she was watching from the sidelines now, sifting through it all with the cutting clarity of hindsight.

Questions came spilling into her head: Where was Quinn before she showed up for the flag of Athena? What was she doing? How much time did she have then, to carry out her sinister plot? Rachel couldn't remember, but she could almost imagine Quinn turning Zeus' Fist into a shrine for human sacrifices while no one was looking, pulling her props out from some storage room in the Labyrinth.

She shook her head; she didn't know which was more absurd, the mental image she'd conjured up, or the idea of Quinn  _murdering_  someone—murdering  _Matt,_  maybe even Sandy and Jesse. But it had happened – Matt, at least, she was sure had happened, and Quinn was connected somehow. Rachel frowned, grappling with the possibilities as she felt her way through the dark.

Then she heard something that made her blood run cold: a growl, faint but clear, from somewhere in the trees. She stopped and looked around. There was something watching her; she could feel it. For a terrifying moment she was sure hellhounds had started materializing in the woods – but then the presence vanished.

Rachel kept walking.

She emerged in a clearing, larger than the one their team had used for Capture the Flag. A familiar outcrop of rock loomed up in front of her – the same one they'd emerged from after their escape from Enceladus. A small, blue ∆ glowed on one of the stones – and bounding towards her, barking like mad, was a familiar brown dog.

"Hello, Laelaps," Rachel said, bending down to scratch behind his ears.

"You."

Her head snapped up. Quinn glared at her from the other side of the clearing, her face drenched in sweat. Behind her, Santana leaned heavily into Brittany's side; both of them stared at Rachel, obviously taken aback.

"You shouldn't be here," Quinn spat, narrowing her eyes.

Rachel stared back at her and frowned. There was an edge to Quinn's voice, a viciousness that she'd never heard there before. Whatever absurdity Rachel had found in the idea of Quinn as a murderer disappeared completely. Standing there, her eyes a storm of cold, unbridled anger, Quinn looked more than ready to kill.

"I thought you'd already agreed to make me part of this team," Rachel said, fighting to keep her voice even.

She held Quinn's gaze; there was an end to be reached, after all, and she was not going to back down. Not when Quinn was like this. Never mind the peaceful, sleeping Quinn from the catacombs; never mind the helpless, damaged girl they'd carried from Mount Diablo. For the first time since the quest had started, she finally looked like the fragile, ticking bomb from Rachel's dream: a hair's breadth away from putting a sword to her throat; a hair's breadth away from destroying the world.

Naturally, the hellhounds chose that moment to attack. A dozen snarling monsters leapt out of the trees, pouncing straight for Quinn.

Laelaps dove to intercept one, his snapping jaws catching it by the leg. Vines burst out of the ground, wrapping themselves around the other hellhounds' legs and hurling the creatures out of the air. Quinn rolled out of the way, narrowly missing being crushed by a massive, flailing dog; Rachel threw herself to the ground as another one came sailing right over her head.

"Labyrinth, now," Quinn called, scampering towards the rocks.

Rachel staggered to her feet, just in time for someone to grab her by the collar.

"What – " she gasped, but even with a major head wound Santana had a glare that could make even a basiliskos quail, and it killed Rachel's question before she could even begin to form the words.

The ground shook as Quinn pressed a hand to the glowing symbol, and the rocks parted with an ear-splitting screech, opening out into darkness. Laelaps darted around a hellhound and shot straight into the tunnel, Quinn right on his heels.

Rachel tried to notch an arrow, but Santana kept a tight hold on the back of her collar. She grabbed desperately at her throat, trying to pull the fabric away; there was, after all, a certain amount of embarrassment that came with being choked by one's shirt.

Then again, her shirt barely had time to turn lethal: Brittany was retreating towards the Labyrinth entrance. Her vines lashed at the hellhounds like a swarm of cracking whips, keeping them at bay. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded.

"If you die, she'll cry," Santana hissed, shoving Rachel into the tunnel. There was a chorus of howls, and Brittany came sprinting in after them, the rocks rumbling shut behind her.

* 

To say that they were happy to be back would have meant a degree of dishonesty that would probably have been enough to give Rachel permanent indigestion.

She leaned against the wall, clutching at the stitch in her side and trying her best not to hyperventilate. A prickling sensation spread up her nape; it was like there were eyes on them, watching from the shadows. The stale Labyrinth air felt thick and heavy around her, as if the tunnel were trying to suffocate them all.

Laelaps curled up by her feet, resting his head on his paws. If he was planning another circuitous, dead-end route for them, he gave no sign. Although considering he kept his eyes on Quinn, doubled over and coughing a few feet off, he really didn't need to give one anyway.

"Gods," Santana wheezed, cradling her head as she slid down to the floor. "Next time Hades paints a target on your head, Q, don't drag us into it."

As if being underground wasn't enough, a stifling tension spread over them all. Quinn had gone frighteningly still. A current of electricity crackled through the air as she lifted her head and stared coldly at Santana.

"I'm not the one dragging people into this quest."

"Really?" Santana shot back, narrowing her eyes. "Because last I saw, you've done more than enough dragging to replace RuPaul over there as queen."

Rachel frowned.

"Santana," Brittany said quietly, placing a hand on Santana's arm.

Blue sparks danced across Quinn's skin.

"Do you have any idea," she said, forcing each word out through gritted teeth, "what you've done?"

"San," Brittany started again, but Santana had already folded her arms and cocked an eyebrow. Unless the conventions of body language had somehow been drastically altered within the span of two seconds, Rachel figured that meant two things: one, that Santana really couldn't care less; and two, that she'd just set a match to the shortest fuse in the tunnel.

"We can't have her - " Quinn said fiercely, jabbing a finger in Rachel's direction. She froze, as if she'd only just realized Rachel was there – and then she rounded on her. "We can't have you here – "

Rachel drew herself up, bristling. "We've already discussed – "

"Since when was Pippi Longstocking so important?" Santana demanded, her voice straining as she drowned out the rest of Rachel's words. Brittany tugged on her wrist, giving her a look that clearly meant  _"Stop,"_ but Santana shook her head. "Tell me, since when did having hobbit hangers-on affect so much of this fucking quest?"

"Since you went and dragged her along!" Quinn yelled back. Sparks started swirling around her, as if she were at the center of an electrical tornado – which, well, she soon would be. "We don't need  _dead weight_  on this quest – "

The words hit Rachel like a slap to the face. "If I remember correctly, _I_ wasn't the one unconscious – "

"No, there's something else," Santana went on, steamrolling all over Rachel's argument again. She scrambled to her feet, shooting so many daggers at Quinn, Rachel could almost see her riddled with imaginary holes. "There's something else you're not telling us."

Quinn scoffed and turned away. Rachel watched her intently, waiting for her to slip up, to utter a lie that would inevitably lead closer to the truth. But the blue sparks around her were fading, and all Rachel got was a deep breath and an eerie sort of calm.

It amazed her how a front that transparent could still be so utterly inscrutable.

"No, you know what, Q?" Santana said, spitting out the name like it was some kind of poison. Brittany laid a hand on her shoulder. “Listen up, because I’m about to fish you out of your favorite river in Egypt.”

If Quinn's gaze had a thermostat, Rachel was pretty sure it had just been set to "glacial."

"You're about as subtle as a unicorn in a feather boa prancing down Rainbow Road. There's something you're not telling us about this quest –  _something important,"_ Santana added loudly, cutting Quinn off before she could even start to speak, "and the fact that you're hiding something is so painfully obvious, it makes me want to gouge my eyes out."

"I don't see how that could make a difference," Quinn said evenly, raising an eyebrow. "They clearly aren't doing you much good  _now."_

"Oh, no, it's not my eyes," Santana said, glaring pointedly at her. "Just what I'm looking at."

"Fine," Quinn said, her voice so flat and controlled it was unnerving. "If you want to look for things that don't exist – secrets and conspiracies – then go ahead. But don't think you can blame me if I don't play along."

A murmur slithered through the room, barely audible even in the silence. Rachel frowned, listening. It sounded like –  _Brittany?_

"Will you stop that?" Quinn snapped, glaring at Brittany. "If you want to say something, then say it."

Santana clenched her fists. "Shut the hell up, Fabray."

"But I didn't say anything," Brittany said.

Quinn eyed them both with suspicion.

"Right, okay," she finally said. But the doubt in her eyes had given way to  _ice,_  hard and utterly impenetrable -- and as Quinn drew herself up, Rachel knew that they'd just gone from bad to _worse._

"And what's the dim-witted excuse this time, Britt-Britt? Did your cat move from reading diaries to stealing tongues, or did you manage to lose yours all on your own?"

The slap shattered the air like a gunshot.

Quinn staggered back, looking absolutely stunned. Vines burst out of the ground, wrapping themselves around Santana just as she tried to lunge again.

"If anyone needs excuses here, it’s you," she growled, straining against her bonds. "And don't you dare pull the Dad card, because we both know he doesn't care enough to even  _be_  in your fucking deck."

The air around Quinn hissed with static. She looked up, the flicker of hurt in her glare mirrored almost exactly in Santana's; it blinked out almost as fast as it had come, but it had been there, and Rachel was left to wonder just how much they'd trusted each other not to cross the lines they did then.

"Stop it," Brittany said quietly, stepping between them. She turned to Santana, the two of them sharing a look that Rachel couldn't even begin to understand. Whatever it meant, it obviously worked: Santana sighed and dropped to the floor, glaring mutinously at Quinn.

"B," Quinn started. There was a red splotch on her right cheek, and in the split-second that her voice wavered with something that might have been shame, it was almost as though she didn't deserve it.

Brittany stared at her for one long minute, as if she were trying to read Quinn's mind. Then she said, as brightly as ever, "I think we should set up camp here."

She looked around at all of them and added, "I'm going to stay up first, because you're all broken."

Rachel sat down, looking at Brittany in amazement; as incomprehensible as she was, sometimes Rachel couldn't help but wonder if, just maybe,  _Brittany_  had it right, and they were the ones who had everything mixed up.

"Take it," Quinn said abruptly, slipping off her orange camp jacket and practically shoving it into Brittany's hands. "If – if it gets cold while you're up."

A small fire flared to life in the pit of Rachel's stomach. She shifted uncomfortably, leaning her shoulder against the wall and wondering what could have possibly sparked it. Quinn hadn't been lying – unless somehow her lending the jacket to Brittany was some kind of trick. Even then, it should have been some kind of lurch, not a lasting  _burn._

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Santana. If she'd been shooting daggers at Quinn before, Rachel wondered what deadly bladed weapon the look on Santana's face equated to right then. A greatsword, maybe; or the five-foot-long ceremonial blade she'd seen once at the armory. Either way, she figured it was a good thing (for Quinn, mostly) that they were only dealing with metaphors.

"You don't have to bribe me," Brittany said, grinning as she took the jacket anyway. "Friends forgive even without freebies."

A look of relief passed over Quinn's face – and Santana's. The two of them still sat as far away from each other as possible – Santana by Brittany's side, Quinn practically plastered to the wall opposite – but at least they looked a little less likely to kill each other in their sleep.

Rachel closed her eyes. The burning within her was gone, and with the possibility of becoming collateral damage marginally lowered, even the tense silence of the Labyrinth felt like peace.


	16. How To Win Friends And Navigate Mazes

It was deathly cold.

A polished bronze floor stretched out before her, and the shadows twisted and turned, hardening into black marble walls that rose up on either side. Rachel wrapped her arms around herself. Judging from the mist that her breath formed, she'd somehow managed to end up in the Arctic.

Her first thought was that Quinn should have given  _her_  the jacket. Her second was that it wouldn't have been much help at all.

Rachel crossed the room. The air grew colder with every step, the chill seeping in and wrapping around her bones. No amount of layering or thermal underwear would save her; it was a different kind of cold, settling within her with a ruthless finality, and as she stopped halfway across the gleaming floor, she saw exactly where it was coming from.

Two thrones rested against the far wall, both perched on top of a black marble dais. One was shaped like a black flower, gilded with gold; birds and flowers were etched on it in painstaking detail, the intricacy of it filling Rachel with a yearning so strong it was almost cruel. Then her eyes fell on the other throne, and whatever longing had sprung up in her died completely. The throne was white and twisted, all odd angles and melted outlines that sent a shiver up Rachel's spine: it was made of fused human bones.

And it was just her luck, of course, that both seats were occupied.

Sitting on the throne of bones was a man, at least ten feet tall and dressed in black silk robes. He had stark white skin and jet black hair that hung down to his shoulders; on his head he wore a crown of braided gold. Beside him, on the black marble flower, was a woman in a white dress. She had skin so pale it was almost translucent, and her dark hair curled and floated around her, as if blown about by a gentle breeze.

Bowed at their feet, clad in a white chiton and clutching a golden lyre, was a teenage boy.

"We have no interest in your soul," the man boomed, leaning forward. The fabric of his robes seemed to shift as he moved; faces rose out of the folds, ghostly and pained. "The Underworld does not bargain for that which it will soon possess."

"Then I offer you a song," the boy said, looking up, his voice thick with tears and desperation. "A song for the Lord of the Dead, and his captive queen."

Hades scowled, but Persephone laid a hand on his arm and nodded. The boy started playing, each delicate note ringing in the empty air of the throne room, the echoes melting into a melody that spoke of dying spring.

 _Hoson zês, phainou,_  he sang, his voice transforming the room into an endless field of green, the black walls melting away in the rays of an imaginary sun. Flowers seemed to bloom out of nowhere, a riot of color that painted over the dark steps leading up to the throne of Hades.

 _Mêden holôs su lupou._  The air was clearing, each lilting lyric beating back the creeping frost of the Underworld itself. A light flared to life in Persephone's eyes. Blood seemed to rush back into her cheeks, as if the Queen of the Dead had suddenly remembered that she was anything but a ghost.

 _Pros oligon esti to zên._  Even Hades was listening now, straightening up and eyeing the boy with new interest. He waved his hand. A shudder ran through the chamber. At the other end of the room, a set of double doors swung open; a pale girl, her outline faint and blurred, limped inside.

 _To telos ho chronos apaitei,_  the boy finished, holding the last, melancholy note. All at once, the colors faded away; the sun flickered and died; the cold returned full force to the room. Tears ran down Persephone's cheeks, washing away the burst of life that had returned there.

"Orpheus?" The spirit of the girl asked, and it was like the boy had started singing again. He turned around, breaking into a grin that brought the spring back to the Underworld as readily as any song.

"We honor this exchange, Orpheus, son of Apollo," Hades said coolly. He waved a hand, and a set of steps materialized by his throne, winding up through the rocks and leading to the world above. "On one condition. You cannot look back, not until both of you have reached the world of the living."

Orpheus nodded, and a spark of something akin to triumph appeared in Hades' eyes. It was a trick, Rachel realized with a start – a trick worded so carefully it didn't even sound like one, but a trick all the same. She wracked her brains, trying to figure out what the catch could possibly be as Orpheus and Eurydice started climbing up the steps.

Hades and Persephone's outlines started fading, blurring into nothing. Then it hit her.

 _We honor this exchange._ Hades didn't lie; he simply didn't give Orpheus what he'd bargained for. The boy was headed back to the living with a shade in the guise of his lover, and as all the myths and stories of Orpheus' failure came to Rachel in an overwhelming flood, a voice rose above the noise, harsh and familiar: The voice of the earth-woman.

"Do you hope for forgiveness, child?" The voice laughed, and the black marble walls started crumbling into dust. Cracks spread along the floor, splitting the dais in half and sending the thrones tumbling to the ground. "Do you hope to set things right and escape Hades' wrath?"

A pit started opening up beneath Rachel's feet. She stumbled away, but something seemed to be dragging her back, pulling her into the depths of the earth.

"The Lord of the Dead bears no love for the House of Apollo," the voice boomed. "Especially not now. You will get no mercy from him."

*  
As it turned out, she wouldn't get any comfort from waking either.

Not that the world didn't try its best to convince her otherwise. The tension in the air had all but disappeared, and whatever it was that kept watching them from the shadows had gone with it. Listening to the soft trickle of running water, it seemed almost reasonable to expect a platter of waffles and a wake-up call set to the tune of The Sound of Music.

Rachel's eyes snapped open. There hadn't been any running water when they'd fallen asleep. There had been a tunnel, and darkness, and all the shouting that came with being stuck in a confined space with a high-strung traitor, but there definitely hadn't been water.

Staring at the towering stone structure planted right in the middle of the decidedly un-tunnel-like room, she almost believed she was wrong. Water sloshed out of the fountain centerpiece's mouths – which wouldn't have been strange, if only the centerpiece wasn't just one person. It was a bust of a man with two faces, both looking out from either side of his head; the stone looked weathered and ancient, as if it had been there for ages.

Beyond the fountain, several exits dotted the walls, each opening out into passages shrouded in darkness. There was no telling which one was the tunnel they'd entered, or if it was even there at all.

If architecture could laugh, she wouldn't have been surprised to hear the Labyrinth right then.

Rachel scrambled to her feet, casting around for the others. A thousand different scenarios popped into her head—the earth turning to liquid again, swallowing them up while they were all asleep; the Labyrinth shifting around them, locking them in a room that they could never leave—a cascade of possibilities that grew grimmer with each new half-formed thought. It was brainstorming of the worst kind, and as she scoured the room, the ideas came to her in a flurry that made "brainstorming" feel almost excruciatingly literal.

Then she found Quinn. She lay curled up all the way across the room, sound asleep and so undeniably  _present_  that Rachel almost cried in relief. Keeping tabs on the culprit was integral to averting an apocalypse, after all; the assurance that she wasn't stranded by herself in the Labyrinth was just a bonus.

One by one, the disasters in her head evaporated; if Quinn was there, then the Labyrinth clearly hadn't been in the mood for midnight snacks. She could feel the high of unbridled relief coming on as her gaze swept across the rest of the room: Laelaps slept at Quinn's feet, paws drawn close in perfect imitation of his master; farther off, Santana sat slumped against the wall, bandaged head bowed; and Brittany –

Rachel lurched forward, heart plummeting as she scanned the room again. She limped over to the fountain, peering around the basin and checking behind the stone sculpture, but even as she did so, she could feel her hopes veering straight into a violent nosedive.

There was nothing there to find.

Brittany was  _gone._

*

She didn't know how long she stood there. Everything seemed to have been muted somehow, the colors dulling and the sound of the fountain fading to a low buzz. The air felt brittle, like she'd been stuck in a fragile dream, rooted in place – and the last thing she wanted to do was to move, to break the moment and find that the space beside Santana where Brittany should've been was anything but unreal.

Apparently, the world had other ideas. A small whimper broke through her thoughts; Laelaps lifted his head to look at her. Dread settled like a lead weight in Rachel's stomach. She shifted her gaze; sure enough, Quinn and Santana had started to stir.

 _"Di immortales_ , dwarf," Santana muttered, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "Creeper much? I know I'm hot, but that doesn't mean you can go and act like some fashion-deficient stalker."

Rachel couldn't even bring herself to be offended. She stared back at them, and for once in her life, she was at a total loss for words. Quinn sat up, frowning at her, and before Rachel could even do anything to stop her, she'd asked the one question that tore everything apart.

"Where's Brittany?"

The words shattered the air like a cannonball. Color and sound rushed back in full force, reality crashing back down and knocking all the air from Rachel's lungs. She tried to answer, but her heart seemed to have stuck in her throat. Instead, she forced herself to meet their gaze, and as their eyes widened and their breaths hitched, she knew they understood.

"No," Santana breathed, the one faint syllable slipping out like a strangled prayer. "No, no, no,  _no."_

She leapt up and shoved past Rachel, sprinting around the fountain as if she expected to find Brittany hiding on the other side. But there was nothing there, and Rachel's insides twisted as Santana froze, staring out at the empty room and looking for all the world like she'd run headlong into an invisible wall.

For a moment, Rachel wondered if this was how it had been at the Ares camp, that one night when they'd played Capture the Flag: if Santana had broken then too, her fists clenching and her shoulders starting to shake as she hunched over, slowly crumbling where she stood.

Rachel glanced at Quinn, half-expecting her to say something—that it was all a plan, maybe; some sort of joke that she and Brittany had cooked up again—but Quinn sat slumped against the wall, staring at the floor through hollow eyes, her face set in a look of utter shock that made Rachel's heart clench. Almost instinctively, she started reaching for Quinn's hand.

"We have to find her," Santana said slowly. Her head snapped up, and she turned to face them, her eyes alight with a desperate fire. "We have to use the dog."

She bounded across the room, skidding to a stop in front of Quinn and grabbing her by the shoulders. Rachel scrambled forward, reaching for Santana's arm to try and haul her off, but Santana sent her crashing against the fountain with all the force of a girl possessed.

"Do you hear me, Q?" she demanded, her voice breaking as she turned back to Quinn, shaking her so hard it was almost like she was trying to knock the blankness right out of Quinn's eyes. "Use the dog.  _Use the damn dog."_

Rachel didn't know what stunned her more: the sudden surge of pain from the bruises blossoming on her back, or the fact that—for the first time since she'd met her—Santana Lopez was _crying._

Then Quinn looked up, the haze in her eyes clearing, and she gave an answer that rendered Rachel's choice pretty much moot.

"No."

If there was ever a verbal equivalent to a punch in the face, Rachel figured that was probably it.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Santana said indignantly, her eyes wide with disbelief. "We have to look for her, she's in this stupid Labyrinth somewhere and your dog can – "

"No," Quinn repeated firmly, and Rachel could almost see the words cementing the decision in her mind. She drew a breath and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, fixing Santana with a look so sharp it came dangerously close to  _cutting_ , it was almost as if she'd never known Brittany at all. "No. We're not going to abandon this quest."

"You can't be serious," Santana said, her grip on Quinn's shoulders going slack. She stumbled back and staggered to her feet, the shock on her face slowly giving way to a look of utter anguish. "You're choosing this quest over Brittany? A dead-end – you're picking a  _dead-end quest_  over  _Brittany."_

Quinn stared at her, unmoving, and in that moment, Rachel knew Santana would never win.

"Yes, I am," Quinn said coldly. She surged to her feet, blue sparks fizzing to life around her. "And so are you."

Santana gaped like she'd just been slapped. For a second, Rachel almost hoped that both of them had gotten the verbal assault out of their systems – but then a glint of realization appeared in Santana's eyes, and Rachel braced herself.

"No," Santana finally said. She stood stock-still, all the frenzied energy of panic gone. "I'm done with all of your bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"If you want to run around being Daddy's little mutt, chasing after some pathetic god so you can get a pat on the head, then whatever," Santana went on, sneering. The  _clink_ of her spear activating might as well have been a gunshot. "I'm done. Have fun slogging through your pointless quest."

It really would have been better if she'd just gone ahead and dropped a nuclear warhead on them all. It would've been neater. Silence stretched around them like police tape at a crime scene, and from the way Quinn's jaw tightened, from the way Santana shoved past her and marched straight for the nearest exit, it wasn't hard to guess what had died right then.

"Do you really think," Quinn said, forcing out the words through gritted teeth, "that going after Brittany is going to fix anything?"

Santana froze, one foot on the threshold of the nearest passage – and that was all the signal Quinn needed to continue.

"Do you really believe," she pressed on, each word suffused with a forced calm that sent chills up Rachel's spine, "that skipping around the Labyrinth linking pinkies and shoving your tongues down each other's throats is going to solve this quest too?"

Slowly, her back so rigid it might have passed for plywood, Santana turned around. She glared at Quinn as if she wanted nothing more than to burn a hole right through her head, but even that felt hollow. For all the anger and resentment in Santana's eyes, she just looked like a girl who was running on empty.

For a few seconds, as she looked from Santana to Quinn, both of them looking impossibly adrift without Brittany to bridge the gulf between them, Rachel felt nothing but an overwhelming grief.

And then Santana tried to kill her. Not knowingly, which was surprising – but it was a more-than-decent effort all the same.

"I'm not going after her because I'm in love with her," Santana said stiffly, the lie tying Rachel's insides off into agonizing knots. "I know  _you_  don't have anyone to teach you this in that dark little cave of yours, but in the Ares cabin? When it comes to other soldiers, we're trained to give a damn."

"Really?" Quinn folded her arms, completely undeterred. "Seems to me, you're torching the world so you and Brittany can toast marshmallows and cuddle over s'mores."

Santana narrowed her eyes, and for a terrifying second, Rachel feared that she was going to get another gutting from the switchblade of denial. But then the red light of the bronze spear was gone, stowed away in its owner's pocket as an innocuous pepper spray can, and it was clear that potential abdominal pain was the least of anyone's problems.

"Fine," Santana spat, marching back across the room. She stalked right up to Laelaps, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and hauling him to the nearest tunnel.

The dog whimpered, pawing frantically at her legs, but Santana didn't even blink. She yanked him up, throwing Quinn a look of pure contempt before practically flinging Laelaps through the exit.

"You heard the bitch," she growled, her words filled with a bitterness that hit Rachel like a punch in the gut. "Find Thanatos."

*

The funny thing about cornering people was that it was hard to do while hobbled.

Rachel's foot screamed in protest as she sprinted down the tunnel, fighting to keep up with Quinn. She could still hear Santana's lie ringing in her ears, filling her with equal parts guilt and outrage; it was clear that Quinn had known about it, and the way she'd twisted it around to send them hurtling through the Labyrinth left a bitter taste in Rachel's mouth.

Not that she had much opportunity to tell her that. Santana raced far ahead of them, whipping around corners and ripping through crossroads like she was trying to leave them behind, and Quinn was pouring on the speed to match. Considering the widening gap between them and her woeful lack of telepathic powers, Rachel doubted she'd be confronting her anytime soon.

Then they hit the storm drains.

Cold air slapped Rachel's face as she rounded the corner. Her shoes disappeared under white froth. She trudged gingerly into the passage, wincing. Pipes lined the walls, opening out above them and sloshing out small waterfalls that left them ankle-deep in rushing water.

Up ahead, she could hear Santana and Laelaps charging right through the spray. The thought of it made Rachel's stomach churn. She wondered if Quinn knew that would happen, too—if she knew that Santana wouldn't just follow orders, but take the lead like she had something to prove.

It was getting them through the Labyrinth in record time, and _that_ certainly aligned with the little that Rachel knew of Quinn's plan. But she'd never expected Quinn to leave Brittany behind, and the memory of Brittany's disappearance weighed heavy on Rachel's shoulders. Every step along the Labyrinth felt like one in the wrong direction, and Quinn's reasons for steering them there were beyond her.

A couple of feet beyond her, to be exact.

Rachel skidded to a halt. Just up ahead, Quinn inched her way along the tunnel, muttering furiously about "stupid electrical hazards." A knot formed in Rachel's stomach. She charged forward, splashing water everywhere as she took her chance.

"How could you do that?" she hissed, grabbing Quinn by the arm.

Static shot through her fingers, but Rachel held fast. There was no way she was letting her one opportunity slip. That, and there was no way Quinn was going to electrocute her in the middle of all that water.

Which didn't mean, of course, that Quinn didn't  _want_  to. She whirled around, anger burning away the flicker of surprise that crossed her face. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Rachel stared at her. A thousand burning questions hovered at the tip of her tongue. There were so many things she wanted to ask Quinn, so many people she wanted to make her remember: Matt, Jesse, Sandy, each name sending hurt and confusion stabbing through her like knives.

But there were two that dug deeper than the others, and the questions came spilling out of Rachel's mouth as she locked eyes with Quinn.

"How could you do that to Santana?" She searched Quinn's gaze, trying to find an answer under the brewing storm. "How could you forget about Brittany so quickly?"

She could almost swear she saw that storm falter. A shadow of something that might have been guilt passed over Quinn's face. Then she wrenched her arm away, her scowl slipping firmly back into place, and Rachel couldn't help but wonder if she'd simply imagined it all.

"You mean the same way you've forgotten about Thanatos?" Quinn said, narrowing her eyes. "I know you're set on being dead weight for this quest, but some of us actually have better things to do in life than that."

Rachel flinched. For a moment she was back in the Big House again, sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, trying to tell Mr. Schue what she'd accomplished and finding nothing to say. Her face burned at the memory.

Quinn turned to go, and the sight jerked Rachel out of her thoughts. She reached out, clamping a hand around Quinn's wrist. She was not about to fail a second time.

"Think about what you're doing," she pressed, tightening her hold as Quinn turned to face her.

The faint buzz of static pulsed in a steady current up her arm. Mr. D's voice hummed in her ears, murmuring words from what felt like ages ago.  _Heroes would sacrifice the world to get what they want._ Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the unmistakable light of Santana's spear bobbing ahead of them in the darkness.

Rachel looked up at Quinn, almost willing her to remember the conversation with her, as if her voice could carry the memory of purple flames and wrapping vines with it as it echoed above the rushing water. "Whatever cause you dedicate yourself to is your business, but don't ask anyone else to pay the price."

A spark flared to life in Quinn's eyes, and Rachel held her breath, bracing herself for the scathing retort. It never came. The spark died as fast as it appeared, and Quinn clenched her fists, her expression hardening into a mask that was wholly unreadable.

"Do you know how many people have survived getting stuck in this Labyrinth?" she said evenly, stormy hazel eyes boring into Rachel's. "One. Theseus, son of Poseidon. He had Ariadne's string."

Rachel knew the story: Theseus, sent to stop the slaughter of Athenian children at the hands of the Minotaur. She frowned; the thought of running around in a site for human sacrifices wasn't exactly comforting.

"Brittany doesn't have that," Quinn went on, the words tumbling out of her mouth in an agitated rush. "There are monsters worse than the Minotaur in here. Vines can only go so far, and we only just managed to convince Mr. D to let her start weapons training this summer – "

Ice flooded Rachel's veins. The little hope she'd had of ever finding Brittany again wavered. She let go of Quinn's wrist, her heart plummeting as she gaped in disbelief. Quinn had known this about Brittany, too, like she'd known about Santana—and she'd still chosen to leave Brittany behind.

The question slipped almost ghostlike from her lips. "How can you know all that and not go look for her?"

"Because the only thing that tells me is that she's gone!" Quinn snapped. Blue sparks sprang to life around her, fizzing and crackling as they crashed into the spray. "She's gone, and time hasn't stopped, and there are bigger things to deal with – "

 _Like the war. The war she'd orchestrated from the start._  Blood pounded in Rachel's ears, and she drew back, stumbling through the water. The image of an orange camp jacket slowly pieced itself together in her head, and with a sickening lurch she remembered the burning in her stomach. It was a trick, she realized—a trick, just like Hades' in her dream, and somehow Brittany's disappearance was still part of the plan.

Quinn drew a breath, the sparks blinking out around her.

"So yes, I have thought about it," she finally said, the coldness in her voice making Rachel's stomach turn. "I know what I'm doing, and I've had enough of your distractions."

She turned around, marching off down the tunnel. Far over her shoulder, the light of Santana's spear glowed faintly in the darkness. Rachel stared at it, and as she trudged through the water, Brittany's fate still seared painfully in her mind, she saw the beginnings of a plan.

*

The tunnel led them to a camp site.

Or, well, it led them to a cold, dark cave lined with stalactites and stalagmites, but with exhaustion finally catching up to them, Rachel figured it amounted to the same thing. They slowed to a halt, the shadows flitting in a sinister dance around them as Santana fought to keep her spear steady. Water trickled from the ceiling, the drops falling in a staccato rhythm that drummed like restless fingers against the silence.

Wordlessly, they set up camp. Quinn took a spot by one of the stalagmites, sitting on the very edge of their feeble circle of spear-light. Laelaps curled up in front of her, almost as if he wanted to shield her from the glare that Santana sent her way.

Rachel set down her quiver. Her words hummed in her ears, the way she'd rehearsed them in her head as they made their way along the tunnel; her heart kept time with the water, pumping anticipation through her veins. She took a breath, fixing her gaze on Quinn.

"I'd like to take first watch," she said, trying to keep her voice casual as Quinn leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. "I understand you two are still considerably injured – "

"No way," Santana interrupted, scowling. "I'm not trusting my life to some chipmunk in argyle." She folded her arms. "I'm keeping watch."

"So you can up and leave in the middle of the night?" Quinn said, gripping her sickle-sword tighter as she narrowed her eyes. The air around her crackled, filling the cavern with the smell of ozone. "Think again.  _I'm –"_

"Not in any shape to stay up," Rachel cut in, holding up her hands. She was  _not_  going to let her plan get derailed, and getting fried by lightning was certainly going to do that. The same went for getting run through with a spear. She glanced at Santana. "Neither are you. I am the least injured person here, and it would make sense for me to keep watch while you two get the sleep necessary for a rapid recovery."

"Up until we get eaten by monsters," Santana retorted, but she let go of her spear, propping it up against the rock. For a moment, Rachel thought she saw a glint in her eye, but before she could figure out what it could possibly mean, Quinn broke through her thoughts.

"Fine," she finally said. She frowned, her gaze darting from Rachel to Santana and back again, as if she were trying to gauge who was more likely to murder her in her sleep. Her eyes settled on Rachel. "You take first watch."

It was partly true, too. One by one, the others closed their eyes and dozed off, but Rachel leaned against a stalagmite, watching the rise and fall of Quinn's chest and waiting for her to _really_  fall sleep. It was more than likely that Quinn would try to stay up as long as possible, and that was a risk she wasn't willing to take.

Her own eyes were growing heavy when she finally decided to make her move. Rachel shook the sleep out of her head and cautiously got to her feet. She drew a breath, steeling herself before hunkering down and tiptoeing her way over to Laelaps. The space between them was the largest she'd ever had to cross in her life. Her legs burned as she crept forward, pausing after every other step to check that the others were still asleep.

Quinn's steady breathing seemed to echo through the whole cavern, and each breath sent a stab of guilt through Rachel's chest. She winced as she knelt by Laelaps, his master lying unsuspecting just a few feet away; for a moment, she wondered if she was committing the same crime, betraying people when they least expected it.

She shook her head. There was a difference. There was a difference, because she wasn't trying to incite a war between immortal beings, and she wasn't leaving her friends to certain death in an evil maze. Granted, Rachel doubted she had many friends to leave anyway, but the point still remained: she was doing the right thing. She glanced at Quinn, her heart clenching; she was doing the right thing, and that was the difference.

The warmth of Laelaps' fur was little comfort as she ran her hands through it. She patted him gently, shushing him as his eyes cracked open.

"Come on, boy," Rachel murmured, leading Laelaps along as she turned around.

The blow came out of nowhere. Rachel dove out of the way, biting back her cry of surprise as she narrowly missed taking a spear-point to the head. Red light flashed above her, and a dull _thump_  resonated through the darkness as Santana's spear struck the ground.

"Give me the dog, dwarf," Santana hissed, whirling around and hefting her spear again. "Give me the dog or I swear to Zeus –"

"I'm trying to help you!" Rachel shot back indignantly, pulling Laelaps out of the way as bronze thrust at them again. The spear swung around, and she threw herself to the ground, barely avoiding getting her ribs clubbed into dust.

Santana tried to stamp down on her nose, but Rachel rolled out of the way—right into a stalagmite. Pain shot through her head. The world spun, but she staggered to her feet, snatching her bow up and holding it in front of her as Santana closed in again.

"I'm trying to help you," she repeated angrily, fighting to keep her voice low, "and I will not be in any position to do that if you give me a concussion."

Santana narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Rachel glared back at her, shaking her bow for good measure. For a moment, she wondered what she'd do if Santana decided to clobber her anyway—but then Laelaps slunk up behind her legs, and Santana lowered her spear.

"I planned more than just a concussion," she muttered, glowering. She studied Rachel for a moment, as if she were trying to figure out what the catch was. "Why the hell are you doing this?"

Rachel stared at her, a lump forming in her throat as every word of Santana's lie pounded through her ears again. She thought of Quinn, sacrificing even her closest friends in an effort to destroy her father; of Brittany, lost somewhere in the Labyrinth; of the quest, and how they were all expendable pawns asked to do whatever it took to accomplish it.

"It's just that, I've come to realize – "

She stopped, her gaze drifting away from Santana. The memory of Mr. D spoke in her mind then, the sound of his voice reminding her of selfish gods and selfish heroes both, and as she looked beyond Santana's shoulder, her eyes finding Quinn again, the words came to her with a startling clarity.

"You shouldn't have to sacrifice your world for the sake of someone else's."

Rachel stared at Santana, taking in the bandages wrapped around her head and the weariness buried under all the anger in her eyes. She nudged Laelaps towards her, and as the dog stepped uncertainly forward, she knew that Santana knew—about the lie, and about how Quinn wasn't the only one who saw it for what it was.

For a terrifying moment, Santana looked about ready to punch her. But she didn't raise a fist so much as she did an eyebrow, and a wave of relief engulfed Rachel when Santana spoke again.

"Where the heck did you get that line?" she demanded, running a hand through Laelaps' fur. "The Disney Channel?"

All the anger vanished from her eyes then, as if Laelaps was more comforting for her than he had been to Rachel just a few moments before. And maybe it was the prospect of finally getting to search for Brittany, or maybe the blow to the head was addling Rachel's brains—but whatever it was, it made sure the anger didn't come back even as Santana turned to look at Quinn.

"You can't do this quest without Laelaps," she said quietly.

Rachel followed her gaze, and guilt stabbed through her chest, the pain sinking deeper than ever. She studied Quinn, recalling all the lies and the deaths; she clenched her fists, willing the memories to chase away whatever image of innocence Quinn still managed to keep in her sleep.

Quinn was a traitor, she knew that much. She'd planned it all from the start, leading them through the Labyrinth and letting out lie after lie like a rope, and if Brittany's fate was any indication, she'd knotted it all into nooses for each of them. Laelaps couldn't have been anything more than a front, and if anyone knew how to get through the Labyrinth without him, it had to be Quinn.

She steeled herself, forcing the words past the ache building almost unbearably within her. “Yes, we can.”

Santana's gaze hardened.

"Listen here, midget," she said flatly, scowling. "I don't care about whatever twisted game it is that you think you're both playing. Be delusional, whatever; gods know you both are." 

She narrowed her eyes. "But make Pikachu even more messed up than she already is, and I will end you."

Rachel gaped at her. "That was never my intention –"

"Yeah, well, it doesn't have to be," Santana interrupted, her words ringing with a sad sort of truth as she turned to look back at Quinn. For a moment, Rachel thought she saw her gaze soften the tiniest bit. But then Santana shook her head, scoffing, "Whatever. See you in camp, Yentl."

She beckoned Laelaps over, kneeling in front of him and holding her arms open. The dog sniffed at her for a moment, and then he stepped back, waiting.

"Got it?" Santana said, straightening up. Laelaps barked once, looking up at her eagerly, and for the first time in a very long while, Rachel saw Santana Lopez smile. "Then what are you waiting for, homing pigeon? Find Brittany."

They sprinted back into the tunnel, and Rachel watched as the red light of Santana's spear faded into darkness. The shadows seemed to close in around her then, seeping into her and settling in her chest like lead. She could feel it, pressing slowly down on her heart with all the weight of guilt and irreversible betrayal.

She made her way back to Quinn, sitting down beside her and leaning back against the rock. It was just the two of them now, left in the dark with nothing but a string of lies and secrets. The sound of Quinn's breathing seemed to echo through the whole cavern, and Rachel closed her eyes, committing each soft breath to memory as she waited for the inevitable storm.


	17. Blood on the Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting, everyone. And for being patient with this story. I'm so sorry for taking so long. Real life sucks sometimes - let us leave it at that. Also! Feel free to leave angry messages/gifs/packages/what have you re: the really long delay.

She was completely unprepared.

Granted, there wasn't anything that could have prepared her for a breakfast of emotional turmoil and threatened slaughter, but that was no excuse. She should have powered through the fatigue. She should have stayed up all night. She should have pinched herself a thousand times over when her eyes started to close. Then, at least, she could have been spared the terror of waking up to a murderous Quinn Fabray.

Rachel sat bolt upright, drawing back and flattening herself against cold stone. She'd expected a confrontation, of course, but somehow her projected scenarios had all managed to fit in the prep time and lead-up that the real world could not. As it was, she'd been tossed into the middle of a death match, and her brain wasn't prepared to do anything but make her painfully aware of the fact.

Emphasis on "painfully." Every edge in the rock seemed determined to stamp itself into her back. Her bow clattered to the ground as tension seized control of her fingers. Heartbeats chased each other in her ears, so fast and deafening it was almost like her heart wanted to run itself to failure.

Not that Quinn would ever make her death that easy. She towered over Rachel, mouth set in a grim line, her silver sickle-sword clutched tight in her hand. Ozone flooded the cavern. There were no sparks, not yet -- but the air burned with the promise of lightning, and as Rachel met Quinn's gaze, she knew that was one promise Quinn wasn't inclined to break.

"Where's Santana?"

Clearly she didn't have the same reservations about silence. Rachel stared up at her, completely disarmed as the question fell, level and measured, from Quinn's mouth. It wasn't a shout; it wasn't a demand. It was barely even audible. But it split the air like thunder, undoing the knots that Rachel had tied so carefully around her guilt and setting her betrayal out in front of her, stark and inescapable. Already she could hear the whisper of reproach in her ears, creeping in and stealing all her words away.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Rachel wondered if losing those to Quinn had always been so easy.

She didn't have an answer for that either.

"Where - is - Santana?" Quinn repeated through gritted teeth, the calm in her voice straining with every syllable. She gripped her sickle-sword tighter. "Answer me, Rachel."

The ice in Quinn's gaze broke almost imperceptibly, and frustration slipped through the cracks, worming its way out as she spoke. Her hands shook.  _Answer me._  It almost sounded like a plea.

 _No,_  Rachel told herself fiercely, the thought of it bringing all of her words back in an instant; Quinn Fabray didn't plead. Instead she asked for honesty where she herself had given none, and Rachel steeled herself, recalling all the answers Quinn had denied her, all the lies she'd told her.

She surged to her feet, her veins filled with liquid fire.

"She left," she said, ignoring the ache in her chest as Quinn froze. "I let her take Laelaps and go."

The air hissed with static. Rachel clenched her fists, bracing herself for the impending electrocution — but there was no lightning coming.

"I knew it," Quinn said numbly. She stared at Rachel with distant eyes, as if she were watching a thousand puzzle pieces crash into place before her. "I knew it would be you -- the minute I heard that prophecy -- "

If there was one thing Rachel was quickly learning, it was that Quinn was brilliant at catching her off guard. She blinked, her jaw dropping as the statement sank in. "What?"

 _"Don't,"_ Quinn snapped, narrowing her eyes, all pretense of composure gone. " _Don't_ play stupid with me. Enceladus, and joining this quest -- gods, even that stunt you pulled at Matt's pyre -- "

"What are you talking -- "

 _"Beware the voice of vengeance traitors raise,"_ Quinn cut in, the temperature in the cavern plummeting as she spoke.  _"What seeks is lost in the endless maze."_

The last lines of the prophecy. They had to be. The frost seemed to have found its way into Rachel's veins, wrapping itself around her heart. She stared at Quinn, searching for confirmation, trying desperately to make sense of it all. "That was the last of the quest prophecy, wasn't it?"

"I don't know." The storm in Quinn's eyes left no room for concession. "You tell me, traitor."

 _Traitor._ How many times did she call Quinn that, at least in her head? Rachel scrabbled for an explanation, something to tell her where everything went in the picture of Quinn she'd been piecing together for so long.  _Traitor._ Was it possible that the name was meant for her the whole time?

 _No._ She dug her nails into her palms. That was Quinn, not her, and as Quinn thrust the name upon her, all past transgressions seemingly forgotten, Rachel could have sworn she felt herself catch fire.

"Traitor?" she spat, the retort blossoming like flames on the tip of her tongue. Her heart beat out a furious rhythm against her ribs, hammering through the ice and sending blood roaring in her ears. "Just because I let someone go and save a life? Well at least I'm doing _something,_ Quinn, instead of traipsing around this maze in an effort to distract us from the impending apocalypse!"

"And just so we're clear?" She stepped forward, her voice dropping low, confining itself to the meager space between them. " _You're_  the real traitor here."

Surprise and indignation flashed across Quinn's face, but she held her ground. "Excuse me?"

"Don't even try to deny it," Rachel pressed, casting the question aside as easily as if it had never been asked. It was more trickery, that was all — more ways for Quinn to talk her way out of it, and Rachel had heard enough. "This whole thing – Thanatos, and the war in Olympus – I know it was you, and I will not let you sabotage this quest any further."

She shouldn't have been surprised to discover that Quinn didn't think she'd ever be caught. Hazel eyes widened in disbelief, and long seconds passed as Quinn struggled to answer, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"What?" she finally spluttered out, gaping at Rachel as if she were only just beginning to see her clearly. "You think –  _gods,_ Rachel, why would I –"

Of course. Another ploy. Outrage surged through her with renewed force, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Rachel wondered if some small part of her had really expected anything else. Anger, frustration, shock – all of it rose in an uncontrollable wave within her, names and faces flashing in her mind even as Quinn tried to pretend as though none of them — Brittany, Santana, Matt, Jesse, Sandy — had been lost for the sake of one burdened girl's grand and bitter plan.

"You tell me, Quinn," Rachel answered, plowing through Quinn's indignant protest as she searched her face for some fraction of the truth. "Is it all because you think the gods don't care? Is that it? Are you running this plan of yours on lonely Christmases and gift-less birthdays? Is the world supposed to end because Quinn Fabray thinks she should have had a real father?"

The blow knocked all the wind from her lungs. Rachel slammed hard against the rock, and all of a sudden, as guilt flared like a fresh wound within her, she found herself caught in a half-remembered dream. Quinn's arm pressed across her collarbone, pinning her against the stone as forcefully as it had in her vision from so very long ago — but something was different.

Rachel froze, waiting, but there was no sword digging into her skin, no blood trickling down her neck: just guilt again, stabbing her deep in the chest as she found herself face to face with Quinn, staring past a mask that had been shattered by words she desperately wished she could take back.

"Maybe it should," Quinn hissed, stormy hazel eyes boring into Rachel's. "Maybe the world  _should_  end, and maybe I'm not the only one who'd want it to."

Her glare faltered, and the last question Rachel had ever expected to hear slipped in a broken whisper from Quinn's lips. "Did you ever think about that?"

For long, excruciating seconds, Rachel grappled for an answer. Then Quinn started retreating, stepping back once, twice, like she was trying to piece her restraint back together with every step. When she spoke again, her voice was sharper than it had ever been. "Because if neglect is your only basis, there's a country full of half-bloods out there betraying you too."

So that was it. Rachel gaped at her in disbelief. Yet another act, designed to prove a point. Her cheeks burned at the thought; tricks again, all of it, crafted into intricate little traps that she'd been more than ready to fall for. The ache of guilt in her chest wavered, and anger rushed to fill its place.

"They're not the ones being pursued by Hades," she retorted, her own voice shrill to her ears, "and they're not the ones on this quest."

"The same quest that's my one chance to make everything  _good_  for once!" Quinn yelled, the words so torn and ragged it was almost as though she'd had to rip them from her throat. She clenched her fist, but her hands only shook harder, and her face twisted into a mess of rage and anguish as she locked eyes with Rachel. "So  _you_  tell me — why the hell would I sabotage that?"

And there it was, finally — the truth. It echoed in the silence around them and it resonated in Rachel's bones, over and over again, drilling the guilt far into her heart where she couldn't retrieve it. She stared blankly at Quinn, the question hanging between them, blunt and devastating: _Why the hell would I sabotage that?_ Why, indeed? Why, when all of Rachel's senses now confirmed that Quinn had never planned to, and when the name of "traitor" suddenly fit the wrong suspect all too well?

The rocks shuddered. The glare of a single, blinding headlight pierced through the shadows, and a motorcycle roared into the cavern, crashing through the walls with all the delicacy of a stampeding herd of rhinos. It rumbled to a stop beside them, and hot wind slapped Rachel as the biker straightened up from his seat.

"That's right, punk," he said, pulling off his helmet. White-hot flames licked out from the sockets where his eyes should have been. "Actually, why stop at my little sister here? You ruined it for pretty much everyone."

*

He leapt off the motorcycle, landing with a _thump_  as his combat boots drove deep into the ground. The light of his bike splashed red across his black leather jacket, streaking his white muscle shirt the color of blood. From the way he sneered at them, his lips a twisted line along his scarred and brutal face, the idea of bloodstained clothes seemed almost fitting. But there was a haughty sort of grace there too, and as Rachel took in the slick black crew cut and looked past the scars, it struck her: she knew whose father this was.

"What are you doing here?" Quinn demanded, glaring.

"Didn't think I'd miss your little fight, did you?" Ares said. He flashed her a cruel grin. "What with no one dying and all. Mortal wars get old quick without some corpses."

Quinn scowled, and Rachel winced as the god cracked his knuckles.

"Besides, I heard I needed to beat some sense into my kid. Thought I'd drop by; you were on the way. Or  _in_  the way, if we're talking about the midget here." He turned to look at her, and all of a sudden Rachel felt her gut wrench with the familiar stir of anger. "Sent off some more handy little tracking dogs today, sweetheart?"

Rachel expected shame, or regret, or more guilt than her heart could possibly handle. It was her fault, after all, that Ares was out to give Santana hell, and it was her fault that they were lost in the Labyrinth with no means of navigation. Instead, she felt nothing but rage. She wanted to tear Ares apart, or beat him senseless, or at the very least kick him where it hurt. There was bone to be broken and blood to be spilled and –

Rachel shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

She frowned at Ares; he radiated power, and fury, and somehow he was using that aura to make them want to snap every bone in his body. Beside her, stray sparks crackled, fizzing out as Quinn's grip tightened around her sickle-sword. Rachel dug her nails deeper into her palms. What their chances were against a god, she didn't know — and despite the rage building within her, she didn't want to find out.

"You know you can't interfere with this quest," Quinn said, her voice trembling with barely controlled anger.

Ares shrugged and tugged a hunting knife from his belt. He started picking at his fingernails. "Says who?"

"Says the Ancient Laws," Quinn spat. "Or can't you fit them in that cramped skull of yours?"

It was a miracle that neither of them snapped when Ares yawned. "Old news, sis. Zeus is gearing up for war full-time; did you really think he'd still go and monitor our lunch breaks? Tornadoes take time, kiddo." He gave her a wicked smile. "More time than you'll ever get."

Rachel could have sworn her nails were drawing blood. The hiss of lightning filled the cavern.

"Shut up."

"Oh, but I think you'll love what I'm about to tell you," Ares replied, reaching over and tapping Quinn's nose. She turned away, glowering, but he simply laughed in her face. "See, now that your meddling gorgon's let  _my_ kid wreck your quest, thus mucking up  _my_ rep, I figured it's time to throw my favorite mutt a little bone."

He snapped his fingers. "Which means, I've got a proposition for you."

"I'm not interested in your brainless schemes," Quinn said through gritted teeth. She made to turn away, moving with such obvious effort that Rachel felt her heart clench; whatever was left of Quinn's calm, she wasn't going to piece it back together anytime soon.

"Unless you two screw-ups have another way to track down Thanatos, you better be," Ares shot back. "Mouth off all you want, kid, but I'm the god of war. I know a little something about leading people to death."

He had them, of course; after a statement like that, how could he not? Quinn stiffened, and Rachel's insides burned with shame and anger as a sneer crept across the god's face. It was her fault Laelaps was gone, and now, it was her fault that they were at Ares' mercy. The flames in his eye sockets danced higher, taunting her; he knew full well whose fault it was, too.

"Listening now, are we?"

For a moment, as an impish glee flickered across his face, he almost reminded her of Puck. He beckoned them closer, grinning at the glare Quinn sent his way. The sharp taste of copper flooded Rachel's mouth as she bit back her words.

"It's pretty simple. Whatever form it takes, life is drawn to death. Usually, with Thanatos doing rounds, projecting his essence everywhere, it doesn't need to go far. Hell, it calls and he comes. But not now — not when he's stuck in wherever the hell he is. Now all that life force has to crawl for miles."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Please, if this is all leading up to tying a leash on a corpse — "

"Stylish, but no," Ares scoffed. "Are you talking to Corpse Breath here? I said, life in any form. What I want is the  _best_  form."

"Blood." He held out his hand. His palm glowed red in the darkness. "A little tweaking and I can give you a trail straight to Thanatos."

Rachel glanced at Quinn, fully expecting her to refuse. Potentially striking a deal with Ares was shady enough; now that blood had entered the picture, they might as well be negotiating a deal to start trafficking people's souls with the devil. It wasn't even that he could have been lying; Rachel knew that Ares was telling them the truth, at least so far, but just looking at the smirk on his face made her feel evil by association.

Apparently, Quinn was immune to secondhand malice. A flicker of something akin to hope had flared to life in her eyes. She studied the lines of Ares' hand, and before the dread could even settle in Rachel's stomach, Quinn's head snapped up.

"What's the catch?"

Ares laughed.

"You'll owe me one tiny favor," he said smoothly. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "Simple as that."

Rachel's blood ran cold. The smile alone was enough to convince her that it would be anything but simple. Panic seized her when Quinn stepped forward; despite herself, she reached out and grabbed hold of Quinn's arm. "Quinn, this is –"

 _A bad decision stemming from desperation? Madness? Sparta?_  No; it was their only way forward, and the rest of her objection died the minute she saw the resolve in Quinn's eyes.

"At least let me do it," she said instead, the ache in her chest deepening as she spoke. It was only right, after all; it was her mistake that got them there, and it was up to her to fix it.

"No dice, traitor," Ares cut in, prying Quinn free from Rachel's hold. He winked at her, and Rachel lost all feeling in her fingers as she clenched her fists, trying to keep from clawing the smugness clean off his face. "You want to be useful, go ahead and cough up all those answers you've got stowed in your head. In the meantime – "

He offered Quinn his hand again, the light from his palm casting a bloodred glow across her face. "What do you say, kiddo? Fancy doing something right, for once?"

Quinn looked downright murderous. Sparks arced through the air around her, but she took Ares' hand, grimacing. For a second, nothing happened.

Then red light exploded from their joined hands, illuminating the cavern with all the intensity of a nuclear explosion. Quinn tried to move away, but Ares held her in place; Rachel shut her eyes tight and ducked her head as the light washed over them all, searing split-second images of blood and battle on the inside of her eyelids, leaving the sting of loss and ruin etched along her skin.

"Very good, Quinnie," Ares said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

Rachel opened her eyes. Quinn staggered to her feet, one hand still clasped in Ares', her eyes stormier than ever.

 _"Don't_  call me that," she spat, yanking her hand away. A single black symbol was branded on her palm. Rachel squinted at it: a spear, the mark of the war god, extended across Quinn's skin like a dotted line.

"Bad memories, sweetie? Tsk. If I were you, I'd lap up the praise while I could." Ares shrugged and walked back to his motorcycle. "Don't have much time left to grovel at daddy's feet, do you?"

"What are you talking about?" Rachel blurted out, casting a worried glance at Quinn. Her knuckles were stark white against the leather grip of her sickle-sword, and the hiss of building lightning grew steadily louder.

"Weather," Ares answered nonchalantly, swinging a leg over his bike. "Some natural disasters. Or haven't you heard of them in here? Tornadoes in L.A., couple of earthquakes in New York. Thunderstorms all over SoCal. Heard old Corpse Breath's got a zombie apocalypse in mind for Manhattan."

The crackle of electricity died instantly. Rachel gaped at Ares in horror, even as the sinking feeling in her stomach told her that everything he'd said was true: the war, the Olympian war they'd set out to stop, was already underway.

She turned to Quinn, but the last traces of emotion seemed to have drained from her face. She stood motionless, looking steadily at Ares; the storm in her hazel eyes was all but dead. An almost physical ache seized Rachel at the sight. Some part of her had expected dismay, indignation, maybe the threat of an underground thunderstorm — but Quinn wore her loss too well, sidled into it too easily; it might as well have been a threadbare coat that she'd been slipping on for years.

"Of course, those are just the test runs," Ares added, revving the bike's engine. He waved a hand casually. "So, you know, find Thanatos and boost my rep, go ahead. It's still a win/win for me." He leaned closer to Quinn, his eyes burning hotter, his voice dropping menacingly low. "Because you know what, Quinnie? At this point, it doesn't matter what you do."

The smile that spread across his face was nothing short of brutal. "That war's gonna happen — and I want to see a death toll when it does."

*

It glowed an accusatory red.

A soft hiss echoed through the room as Quinn squeezed her left hand, coaxing a few more drops of blood out of the cut she'd carved along the spear mark. Faint light cut through the shadows as the drops fell to join the growing stain on the ground, and Rachel's stomach turned as the blood started congealing, pressing itself into a thin, red line that stretched and snaked its way through the rocks.

It seemed to be mocking them. Rachel watched as the trail slithered into a low opening in the cave wall, the line's far end quickly disappearing from view. They'd missed their chance — worse still, Rachel had sent Santana off with a vital part of it — and yet here the trail was, leading off into the rest of the Labyrinth like some kind of promise that they could undo the war, or at least, that Rachel could undo the missteps that had ruined things for herself, for the quest, for Brittany and Santana — and for Quinn.

Quinn, who seemed to have retreated into herself, almost swallowed up by the darkness of the cavern. She stood staring at the ground, strands of hair falling into her face, her left hand hanging limp by her side. Rachel could just make out the blood trickling from her palm down to her fingers. Guilt sliced a sharp, familiar pain into her then; determination was an important trait for a star, but she couldn't help but wonder if too much of it had cost her the one chance she'd had to be a star in the first place. It had certainly cost Quinn blood.

 _No._ Rachel stepped closer, her heart lodging in her throat. She knew her stubbornness had cost Quinn a lot more than that.

"I'm so sorry."

It wasn't enough, of course. The way her voice broke, she figured it hardly even counted. A litany of increasingly elaborate apologies sprang to mind, but she pushed it aside; remorse wouldn't make up for anything, especially not when it was encased in words that were as inadequate as they were fleeting, and when Quinn seemed to have locked herself behind a multitude of walls that Rachel felt she had no right to breach. Even her one substandard apology had felt like trespassing, and she paused, waiting for a scathing — and much-deserved — dismissal.

Quinn didn't say a word.

"If you'd like to finish this quest on your own, I understand," Rachel went on, willing her voice to stay steady. "I'd – I'd ask you to send a search party for me whenever you deemed it acceptable, but after everything that's happened, I understand if you'd rather not."

She took a steadying breath. It was the closest thing to a sufficient apology that she could offer, and she was not about to insult either of them by saddling it with some kind of binding concession. The last thing she wanted to do was to  _compel_ Quinn to forgive her. It was an offer to get even, the only thing she could give in exchange for the disasters she had caused, and she owed Quinn enough to ensure that it was nothing more — or less — than that.

Not that it seemed to matter either way. Silence stretched between them, immense and forbidding, and Rachel waited, doubt pooling in her heart with every passing second. She wondered if that was Quinn's way of accepting her offer — if the silence  _was_ , in fact, the dismissal Rachel had been waiting for, and Quinn simply loathed her too much to even speak to her and say so.

She bit her lip. Insults would have been easier to handle.

"I'm not going to leave you," Quinn said tonelessly. She was still looking at the blood-trail, her breaths coming in slow, drawn-out streams. When she spoke again, her voice was brittle. "Losing two people's more than enough, don't you think?"

Rachel stared at her, at a loss for words. The collective weight of their many mistaken decisions parked itself firmly on their shoulders, and she wondered if there was a way to take it all back: Quinn's mistakes, and hers, because it was clear now that both crushed Quinn in equal measure. Neither of them were blameless, but at the moment Rachel would have jumped at a deal to give up  _her_ blood, if it meant that they could redo the quest and have it end with something that didn't leave Quinn so broken.

She plucked at the frayed edges of her shirt, winding loose thread around her fingers. Quinn turned to look at her. The cavern must have grown in size, Rachel decided. Or maybe both of them had gotten smaller, stripped of the many roles they'd cast each other in—"traitor," "heroine," perhaps even "demigod." Standing there as nothing but themselves, she could only see exhaustion.

"Thank you for letting Santana go," Quinn said softly.

"I — " Rachel paused, watching as a tear slid down Quinn's cheek. It was strange how much easier the truth came to her now, when Quinn wasn't some kind of sinister puzzle she was racing to solve. Guilt, at least, was something they had in common. "You would have done the same thing."

Quinn gave her a small, humorless smile.

"You're lying," she said, with so much conviction it was almost like she was stating some kind of irrefutable fact. She shook her head once, pressing her lips together as if that might keep her from crying.

"I know you think I am," Rachel said quietly, a lump forming in her throat as Quinn nodded and closed her eyes in resignation, "but I also know that you really would have, given time."

It struck her, all of a sudden, how close they were. She could have traced the path Quinn's tears took as they fell, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if that really was the only way they could ever stand within two feet of each other without any threat of bodily harm — if the world had to be crumbling, with all semblance of hope seemingly lost, before they gave each other a chance to engage in a civil conversation. Rachel's heart turned leaden at the thought, and every second they spent in silence only seemed to make it heavier.

"So I hear you have answers," Quinn said at last, wiping her cheeks dry. She straightened up and opened her eyes; once again, they were inscrutable.

Rachel studied her for a long moment. She couldn't quite figure out where they stood now, or what Quinn's plan was, and she had a feeling that the only answer she could give wouldn't help matters at all.

"I don't know what Ares was talking about," she muttered.

Quinn frowned at her, and she sighed. There hadn't been time to reassess all of their previous notions about the quest, what with Ares busting in to pummel their self-esteem; it was entirely possible that she possessed answers that she simply didn't recognize as such yet. 

The idea of it lit her nerves with the prickling energy of frustration. What kind of answers did Ares mean, and what was she missing? She wrung her hands, pacing back and forth in front of Quinn and wishing for all the world that she had her brainstorming pens with her.

"I don't recall ever getting any information you could classify as a concrete answer," she said absently, ignoring the eyebrow threatening to disappear past Quinn's hairline. "I mean, the only answers I ever thought I had turned out to be misleading drea — "

She stopped, the answer hitting her like a barrage of slushies to the face. "The earth-woman."

"What?"

"Ever since the attack in the auditorium, I've been plagued with troubling dreams," Rachel explained, trying to string the rush of memories into something coherent. Judging by the look on Quinn's face, it was a spectacular failure.

"Please don't look at me like I'm deranged," she huffed, folding her arms. Of course, considering what she was about to say, Quinn had every right to look at her like that, but it was the principle of the thing; she'd much rather earn that look than receive it preemptively.

Quinn pursed her lips. It wasn't exactly the warm, open expression Rachel was hoping for, but something told her it was the most she was going to get.

"In the dreams, there's always been a woman made of earth, speaking to me," she said, resuming her pacing. "I mean, she wasn't always _there,_  I think I've only seen her twice — but in every dream, she spoke to me. She was always menacing, but I never sensed any lies from her, and people have always had a tendency to be menacing when they talk to me, so I never thought — " 

She hesitated, turning to look at Quinn. "She was the one who told me that you were the traitor."

The sheer amount of disbelief etched on Quinn's face was remarkable. It was also humiliating.

"You went after me because of a  _talking mud bath."_  She pressed her fingertips to her temple. "Gods, you really are delusional."

"Well, your constant lying certainly didn't help," Rachel shot back, stung. "As far as I was concerned, my suspicions were fully supported by your dubious behavior."

Quinn scowled. "What did you expect, some nice personalized commentary for the merry band of turncoats?"

 _"Possible_  turncoats, and that's no excuse for — Okay, look," Rachel amended, holding her hands up as she swallowed the rest of her admittedly pointless retort. "I think we've established the fact that we both had our reasons for suspecting each other. But now that we might actually have something more definite to go on than prophecies and mud-women, can't we focus on figuring out what to do next?"

The question hung in the air. Rachel bit her lip, waiting anxiously for an answer that didn't seem likely to come. Had she jumped the gun? There was, after all, a difference between the willingness to reply and the willingness to  _cooperate;_  given her previous experiences involving either conversational or cooperative people (which, barring recent exceptions, tallied up to something along the lines of "virtually none"), she figured it wasn't a difference she might have learned to spot.

Then again, when it came to Quinn, she’d learned that it wasn't so much about spotting the  _difference_  as it was figuring out what lay beyond the obvious options.

"Next?" Quinn asked, her voice hollow. Her lips quirked into a bitter smile. "Have you forgotten, Rachel? There is no 'next.'"

Suffice it to say that Rachel did  _not l_ ook far enough past the obvious options. She _had_  forgotten. She'd forgotten the defeat that had settled over Quinn in the aftermath of Ares' visit, and between her ADHD and her recent encounter with what felt like the beginnings of an epiphany, she'd forgotten the lack of a "next" precisely because it seemed that she had found a solution. It was clear now, though, that Quinn thought differently.

"Then why did you go and ask for answers?" Rachel said, frowning. Apparently she should have been more worried about misinterpreting Quinn's unreadable gaze as a sign of resolve.

Quinn shook her head. When she spoke, it was almost as if she were trying to offer an explanation to herself instead. "I had to know. If you really did have the answer, then I had to know, even if — "

"Even if you were giving up?" Rachel interrupted. Her frown deepened. A strange mix of outrage, hope, and frantic desperation was pumping through her veins now, sending words clattering into place in her mind. She motioned wildly at the blood-trail. "Don't you see, Quinn? If the earth-woman is behind this, then we finally know who the real culprit is,  _and_ we have the means to foil her — "

"We don't even know  _what_ she is," Quinn countered, pointing with her sickle-sword as if they had a replica of the earth-woman there to be skewered. "And even if we find her, she has the power to kidnap a god and invade people's dreams. Do you really think we can do anything against that?"

"Yes," Rachel said. Whether or not their efforts would succeed was a different matter altogether, of course, but trying certainly wouldn't hurt. Not as much as Quinn seemed to think it would, at least. "And as long as we follow this trail, we still have a chance — "

"To what, exactly?" Quinn said quietly. Rachel fell silent; she had forgotten how much weariness that voice could hold, too. "Free Thanatos in time to let millions of people die?"

The patter of trickling water was deafening, the drops ticking off seconds they apparently didn't have with a steadiness that bordered on insulting. Quinn looked down at her cut hand, glaring at it as if it were diseased. "Time's up, Rachel. This quest is over."

Rachel shook her head. Spelled out so plainly, she only found it that much harder to believe. It couldn't be that simple, not when they finally knew what they were up against, and when they had a means of navigation that they weren't likely to lose anytime soon. It was Ares' word against their newfound answers — and she was not about to let Ares talk them into giving those up, too.

Especially when he wasn't even there to do it.

"No, it isn't," Rachel said, raising her voice as if sheer volume could chase Ares' news away. She held out her hand, tamping down the unease that threatened to pull her arm back; she wasn't talking to a traitor anymore. "The world's still here, right?"

Part of her waited for an eyeroll, or some kind of cutting remark and a reference to classic Disney dialogue — but a bigger part of her knew that she and Quinn had one thing they could agree on, and it was that losing two people really was more than enough. A buzz like static traveled through Rachel's fingers as Quinn's hand slipped into hers, moving with all the speed of reluctance, leaving blood smeared warm and slick across Rachel's skin.

"Then we can still save it."

It was relief, Rachel decided; it was relief and the disconcerting sort of connection that came with someone else's blood sneaking into the lines on her palm. That was what sent her insides churning, what sent her head spinning with a force that left the world decidedly off-kilter. They were doing something right, now, claiming the quest _together;_ she could feel it, and she held Quinn's hand with a certainty that was both new and exhilarating.

Quinn studied her for a long moment.

"Just so you know, this doesn’t make you any less delusional," she said flatly.

There was no misinterpreting the caution in her eyes this time, or the fear, or even the tiniest hint of bite that crept into her voice. But there was no missing the hand that inexplicably stayed in Rachel's grasp either — and for all of Quinn's valiant efforts to complain about the horrors of being stuck with Rachel, or Rachel’s equally determined attempts to discuss the torment that was travel with Quinn, Rachel figured it wasn’t really delusional of her to think that, this time, all their gripes rang with a little less truth than usual.


End file.
